=r 


i 


S  TY  OF 


SAN 


LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


PRVErAND;! 

GeorgeWilliam  Curtis 


HOMAS 
NEW  YORK 


iiiulJiimi   iiiium  Lite  mu  ul 


r  PRVErANDl 

GeorgeWilliam  Curtis 


'HOMAS  Y  CROWELL  8  CO 
NEW  YORK  &"  BOSTON 


PRUE  AND  I 


BY 


G-eorge  William  Curtis 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 


M.  A.  De Wolfe  Howe 


I 

I 


T.  Y.  CROWELL  &   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 
BY  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  COMPANY. 


MKS.   HENEY  W.   LONGFELLOW 

IN   MEMORY   OF   THE    HAPPY    HOURS   AT 
OUR   CASTLES    IN   SPAIN 


A  WORD  TO  THE  GENTLE  READER. 

AN  old  book-keeper,  who  wears  a  white  cra 
vat  and  black  trousers  in  the  morning,  who 
rarely  goes  to  the  opera,  and  never  dines  out, 
is  clearly  a  person  of  no  fashion  and  of  no 
superior  sources  of  information.  His  only 
journey  is  from  his  house  to  his  office ;  his 
only  satisfaction  is  in  doing  his  duty ;  his  only 
happiness  is  in  his  Prue  and  his  children. 

What  romance  can  such  a  life  have  ?  What 
stories  can  such  a  man  tell  ? 

Yet  I  think,  sometimes,  when  I  look  up  from 
the  parquet  at  the  opera,  and  see  Aurelia  smil 
ing  in  the  boxes,  and  holding  her  court  of  love, 
and  youth,  and  beauty,  that  the  historians  have 
not  told  of  a  fairer  queen,  nor  the  travellers 
seen  devouter  homage.  And  when  I  remember 
that  it  was  in  misty  England  that  quaint  old 
George  Herbert  sang  of  the  — 

"  Sweet  day  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright  — 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky," 


VI  TO  THE  READER. 

I  am  sure  that  I  see  days  as  lovely  in  our 
clearer  air,  and  do  not  believe  that  Italian 
sunsets  have  a  more  gorgeous  purple  or  a 
softer  gold. 

So,  as  the  circle  of  my  little  life  revolves,  I 
console  myself  with  believing,  -what  I  cannot 
help  believing,  that  a  man  need  not  be  a  vaga 
bond  to  enjoy  the  sweetest  charm  of  travel,  but 
that  all  countries  and  all  times  repeat  them 
selves  in  his  experience.  This  is  an  old  phi 
losophy,  I  am  told,  and  much  favored  by  those 
who  have  travelled ;  and  I  cannot  but  be  glad 
that  my  faith  has  such  a  fine  name  and  such 
competent  witnesses.  I  am  assured,  however, 
upon  the  other  hand,  that  such  a  faith  is  only 
imagination.  But,  if  that  be  true,  imagination 
is  as  good  as  many  voyages  —  and  how  much 
cheaper !  —  a  consideration  which  an  old  book 
keeper  can  never  afford  to  forget. 

I  have  not  found,  in  my  experience,  that 
travellers  always  bring  back  with  them  the 
sunshine  of  Italy  or  the  elegance  of  Greece. 
They  tell  us  that  there  are  such  things,  and 
that  they  have  seen  them ;  but,  perhaps,  they 
saw  them,  as  the  apples  in  the  garden  of  the 
Hesperides  were  sometimes  seen  —  over  the 
wall.  I  prefer  the  fruit  which  I  can  buy  in 


TO  THE  READER.  Vli 

the  market  to  that  which  a  man  tells  me  he 
saw  in  Sicily,  but  of  which  there  is  no  flavor 
in  his  story.  Others,  like  Moses  Primrose, 
bring  us  a  gross  of  such  spectacles  as  we  prefer 
not  to  see ;  so  that  I  begin  to  suspect  a  man 
must  have  Italy  and  Greece  in  his  heart  and 
mind,  if  he  would  ever  see  them  with  his  eyes. 

I  know  that  this  may  be  only  a  device  of 
that  compassionate  imagination  designed  to 
comfort  me,  who  shall  never  take  but  one 
other  journey  than  my  daily  beat.  Yet  there 
have  been  wise  men  who  taught  that  all  scenes 
are  but  pictures  upon  the  mind ;  and  if  I  can 
see  them  as  I  walk  the  street  that  leads  to  my 
office,  or  sit  at  the  office-window  looking  into 
the  court,  or  take  a  little  trip  down  the  bay  or 
up  the  river,  why  are  not  my  pictures  as  pleas 
ant  and  as  profitable  as  those  which  men  travel 
for  years,  at  great  cost  of  time,  and  trouble,  and 
money,  to  behold  ? 

For  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  that  any  man 
can  see  softer  skies  than  I  see  in  Prue's  eyes ; 
nor  hear  sweeter  music  than  I  hear  in  Prue's 
voice;  nor  find  a  more  heaven-lighted  temple 
than  I  know  Prue's  mind  to  be.  And  when  I 
wish  to  please  myself  with  a  lovely  image  of 
peace  and  contentment,  I  do  not  think  of  the 


vill  TO  THE   READER. 

plain  of  Sharon,  nor  of  the  valley  of  Enna,  nor 
of  Arcadia,  nor  of  Claude's  pictures ;  but,  feel 
ing  that  the  fairest  fortune  of  my  life  is  the 
right  to  be  named  with  her,  I  whisper  gently, 
to  myself,  with  a  smile  —  for  it  seems  as  if  my 
very  heart  smiled  within  me,  when  I  think  of 
her  — "Prue  and  I." 


CONTENTS. 


PASl 

To  THE  READER      .        .        «       •       .        .        v 

L 

DINNER-TIME    .        .        .        •        •        .        .        3 

II. 
MY  CHATEAUX.        •       •       •       .        .        .33 

in. 

SEA  FROM  SHORE     .        •       .        .       .        .67 

rv. 

TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES   ....  107 

V. 

A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  .        .    153 

VI. 

FAMILY  PORTRAITS  .        .       •       .        .        .    195 

vn. 

OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE       ....    213 
tz 


INTRODUCTION. 


IN  the  books  and  the  life  of  a  writer  it  is  fair  to 
look  both  for  resemblances  and  for  contrasts.  We 
may  compare  the  life  and  the  books,  and  see  wherein 
they  are  like  and  unlike  at  the  same  and  at  differ 
ent  periods.  Like  Whittier,  whose  various  mani 
festations  of  work  and  personality  presented  the 
broadest  contrasts,  Curtis  was  of  those  who  seem  to 
show  diversity  rather  than  likeness.  Place  "  Prue 
and  I,"  for  example,  in  the  hand  of  the  delegate  to 
the  Republican  National  Conventions  which  nomi 
nated  Lincoln  in  1860  and  Elaine  in  1884,  note  how 
that  delegate  bore  himself  on  each  occasion,  and  the 
writer  of  the  books  and  the  man  of  political  affairs 
stand  apparently  as  far  apart  as  creatures  of  two 
separate  worlds.  But  taking  "  Prue  and  I "  as  a  sort 
of  central  point,  and  observing  what  Curtis  was  and 
did  before  and  after  its  appearance,  we  can  better 
understand  the  outward  contrast  and  see  that  be 
hind  it  there  was  an  essential,  significant  unity  of 
purpose  and  expression. 

George  William  Curtis  was  born  in  Providence, 
R.I.,  on  February  24,  1824.  Since  1635  his  father's 
family  had  flourished  in  Massachusetts.  A  son  of 
xi 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

the  emigrant,  Henry  Curtis,  was  the  first  settler  of 
Worcester,  and  from  Worcester  the  father  of  George 
William  Curtis  moved  to  Providence,  where  he  mar 
ried  a  daughter  of  James  Burrill,  Jr.,  Chief  Justice 
of  Rhode  Island  and  United  States  Senator.  There 
could  hardly  have  been  better  American  inheritances 
than  those  to  which  the  author  of  "  Prue  and  I " 
was  rightfully  born.  From  the  pages  of  this  very 
book  we  are  permitted  to  learn  something  of  his 
boyhood,  for  the  chapter  "  Sea  from  Shore "  gives 
clear  testimony  to  the  influences  which  the  wharves 
and  shipping  of  his  native  town  wrought  upon  the 
imaginative  young  mind.  A  more  pervasive  influ 
ence  of  his  boyhood  was  that  of  his  older  brother 
Burrill,  a  youth  of  rare  physical  and  mental  charm ; 
and  when  we  are  told  that  the  picture  of  "  Our  Cousin 
the  Curate"  has  this  brother  for  its  original,  we 
need  not  inquire  too  closely  into  the  literalness  of 
its  outline,  and  yet  may  surely  recognize  the  loving 
spirit  which  guided  the  pencil  at  every  turn. 

It  must  have  been  the  older  brother's  admiration 
for  Emerson  which  first  brought  the  younger  under 
the  wise  man's  spell.  Yet  Burrill  was  only  thirteen, 
and  George  William  eleven,  when  the  influence  of  Em 
erson  first  entered  into  their  lives.  "  I  still  recall  the 
impressions,"  wrote  Burrill  Curtis,  in  later  life,  "  pro 
duced  by  Emerson's  delivery  of  his  address  on  the 
4  Over-Soul '  in  Mr.  Hartshorn's  semicircular  school 
room  in  Providence,  our  native  town.  He  seemed  to 
speak  as  an  inhabitant  of  heaven,  and  with  the  in- 


INTRODUCTION.  Xlll 

spiration  and  authority  of  a  prophet."  Even  in  the 
thirties  and  forties  there  could  have  been  few  school 
boys  and  collegians  so  ready  to  adopt  the  transcen 
dental  views  as  to  discontinue,  like  the  older  Curtis, 
the  use  of  money  and  animal  food,  and  like  both  of 
the  brothers,  the  conventional  costume  of  the  day. 
For  six  years  before  1835  they  had  been  together  at 
a  school  iu  Jamaica  Plain,  where  the  youngest  boy 
bore  the  nickname  of  "  Deacon."  Here,  if  we  accept 
the  description  of  the  school-life  in  Curtis's  unsuc 
cessful  novel,  "Trumps"  (1861),  there  was  no  fore 
shadowing  of  "  The  Newness,"  of  which  Emerson 
became  the  chief  prophet.  Nor  could  the  boys  have 
found  much  incentive  to  their  way  of  thinking  in 
New  York,  whither  the  family  removed  from  Provi 
dence  in  1839.  Here,  said  Curtis  in  an  autobio 
graphical  fragment  written  many  years  later,  he  was 
at  first  enchanted  by  the  high  buildings  and  the 
whirl  of  life,  and  begged  to  be  set  at  work  in  a  busi 
ness  establishment.  For  a  short  time,  then,  he 
became  a  clerk  for  a  German  and  English  import 
ing  house,  but  at  the  end  of  a  year,  to  use  his  own 
words,  he  "  stepped  nimbly  out  of  it,  nor  ever  wanted 
to  enter  it  again." 

The  time,  if  not  the  place,  however,  was  fortu 
nate  for  youths  with  tendencies  away  from  material 
things.  Near  Boston  the  community  of  Brook  Farm 
was  not  only  bringing  together  the  men  and  women 
who  desired  a  less  conventional  mode  of  life,  but  was 
offering  instruction  to  the  young.  In  1842  Curtis 


XIV  INTRODUCTION". 

and  his  brother  became  "  boarders "  at  the  Farm, 
and  continued  in  residence  there  for  about  two  years. 
There  was  a  pleasant  mingling  of  outdoor  labor  with 
indoor  study.  Under  teachers  whom  the  pupils  could 
know  as  friends,  Curtis  worked  at  Greek,  German, 
music,  arid  agriculture.  The  friendships  of  the 
place  were  intimate  and  stimulating,  and  we  may 
well  believe  that  the  older  Brook  Farmers  got  quite 
as  much  as  they  gave  to  the  handsome,  well-bred 
young  man  who  masqueraded  drolly  as  Fanny  Ells- 
ler  at  a  woodland  picnic,  tragically  as  Hamlet  at  a 
midwinter  fancy-dress  ball,  and  in  his  proper  person 
.delighted  everybody  with  his  singing,  which  never 
lent  itself  to  comic  songs.  Curtis,  young  and  old, 
could  see  the  humors  of  the  place,  and  therefore  its 
work  for  him  was  good,  and  surely  helped  him 
through  all  his  life  to  hold  in  a  true  relationship 
the  spiritual  and  the  temporal  aspects  of  things. 

To  a  similar  good  purpose  the  brothers,  after 
spending  the  winter  of  1844  in  New  York,  put  in 
nearly  two  years  of  simple  living  in  Concord.  They 
went  at  first  to  a  farmer  for  whom  they  worked  as 
laborers  during  half  of  every  day,  the  rest  of  which 
they  devoted  to  study  and  recreation.  On  the  first 
day  of  all  the  farmer  set  the  young  theorists,  as  he 
doubtless  considered  them,  at  getting  out  manure  — 
to  "  test  their  metal."  But  their  very  plan  of  life 
during  their  second  year  in  Concord  showed  that  they 
had  come  there  not  merely  for  amusement.  They 
hired  an  acre  of  land  from  the  owner  of  the  house 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

in  which  they  boarded,  and  turned  the  vegetables  they 
raised  into  money  for  their  own  support.  Here,  as 
at  Brook  Farm,  they  were  received  upon  terms  of 
intimacy  by  the  older  men  whose  names  have  made 
the  places  famous.  If  the  process  of  education  was 
somewhat  unusual,  it  had  rare  merits  in  combining 
the  simplest,  sanest,  physical  life  with  mental  activ 
ity  measured  by  the  highest  standards. 

Curtis  was  writing  many  things  in  prose  and  verse 
through  all  these  years,  and  exhibiting,  especially  in 
his  correspondence,  a  surprising  maturity  of  mind; 
but  before  he  appeared  as  a  writer  of  books  he  spent 
four  years  abroad,  devoting  the  successive  winters  to 
Rome,  Berlin,  Paris,  and  the  Nile  and  Palestine. 
From  this  experience  he  was  constantly  giving  out 
something  in  newspaper  correspondence,  but  for 
everything  he  was  gaining  in  understanding  and 
sympathy  with  matters  of  art,  nature,  and  human 
life,  the  work  of  all  his  years  was  yet  to  speak.  In 

1850  he   returned  to   New  York  remarkably  well 
equipped  for  the  life  of  authorship,  upon  which  he 
had  determined  to  enter. 

When  Curtis's  first  books,  "  Nile  Notes  of  a  How- 
adji "  and  "  The  Howadji  in  Syria,"  appeared  in 

1851  and   1852,  Egypt  and   Palestine  were  much 
farther  from  America  than  they  are  to-day.     These 
writings   served   the    double   purpose   of   bringing 
them  nearer  and  of  associating  the  name  of  Curtis 
with  immediate  success  and  popularity.     To  trace 
and  define  the  successes  of  "  Lotus  Eating  "  (1852) 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

and  "The  Potiphar  Papers"  (1853),  illustrated  after 
the  fashion  of  our  Augustan  (Hoppin)  era,  would 
carry  us  beyond  the  present  limitations  of  space. 
Yet  it  would  discover  Curtis  taking  his  part  in  the 
fashionable  life  of  summer  resorts  and  the  metropo 
lis,  and  at  the  same  time  earning  his  living  through 
the  periodical  press  of  the  time.  The  general  edito 
rial  work  in  which  he  engaged  found  specific  expres 
sion  in  his  helping  to  conduct  Putnam's  Magazine, 
in  which  both  "  The  Potiphar  Papers  "  and  "  Prue 
and  I"  were  printed  in  separate  numbers,  and  in 
assuming,  as  early  as  1854,  complete  charge  of  the 
"  Easy  Chair  "  in  Harper's  Magazine.  At  about  the 
same  time  he  became  a  regular  contributor  to  Har 
per's  Weekly.  Through  both  of  these  channels,  as 
everybody  knows,  he  continued  throughout  his  life 
time  to  speak  to  his  countrymen  almost  as  if  face  to 
face  on  an  infinite  variety  of  literary,  social,  and 
political  topics.  There  was  open  to  him  even  a 
more  direct  mode  of  address  —  that  of  the  lyceum 
lecture  platform  —  and  taking  to  this  even  before 
the  "  Nile  Notes  "  were  finished,  he  made  his  begin 
nings  in  the  practice  of  that  oratory  which  justified 
Mr.  William  Winter  in  calling  him  "  the  last  orator 
of  the  school  of  Everett,  Sumner,  and  Wendell 
Phillips." 

From  the  varied  life  which  Curtis  had  thus  far 
led  "  Prue  and  I "  was  not  an  unnatural  utterance. 
Its  author  was  a  scholar,  a  dreamer,  an  observer,  a 
traveller,  whether  abroad  or  within  his  own  four 


INTRODUCTION.  XV11 

walls.  "When  Italy  and  Syria  and  Greece  have 
become  thoughts  in  your  mind,  then  you  have  truly 
travelled."  So  he  wrote  in  "  The  Howadji  in  Syria." 
The  reader  of  "  Prue  and  I "  finds  him  acquainted 
also  with  the  man  "  who  stays  in  his  room  and  sees 
more  than  Italy."  As  early  as  1853  the  chapter  on 
"  Family  Portraits  "  had  appeared  in  Putnam's  Mag 
azine  ;  and  about  the  time  the  book  was  published 
in  1856  Curtis,  after  a  year's  engagement,  was  mar 
ried.  In  all  its  aspects,  therefore,  "  Prue  and  I "  may 
be  related  with  a  certain  obviousness  to  the  years 
which  Curtis  had  spent.  The  book  may  well  be 
left  to  speak  for  itself — now  with  a  certain  leisurely 
accent  of  the  older  generation,  but  always  with  the 
charm  of  delicate  imagining,  high  thinking,  and 
graceful  expression  which  take  for  granted  a  corre 
sponding  capacity  for  thought  and  cultivation  on 
the  part  of  the  reader. 

Just  as  "  Prue  and  I "  marked  practically  the  cul 
mination  of  one  period  of  Curtis's  work  as  a  writer, 
so  his  marriage  with  Miss  Anna  Shaw  stood  at  the 
beginning  of  the  new  and  more  strenuous  stage  of 
his  thought  and  life.  Early  in  1857  financial  disas 
ter  overtook  the  publishing  firm  in  which  Curtis  had 
invested  money.  Thus  he  became  burdened  with  a 
debt,  not  strictly  his  own,  of  which,  with  a  devotion 
recalling  that  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  he  paid  the  last 
penny  after  nearly  twenty  years  of  self-sacrificing 
toil.  The  outward  misfortune  wrought  a  strength 
ening  of  his  inward  fibre,  which,  indeed,  must  have 


XV111  INTRODUCTION. 

been  made  firmer  by  the  mere  fact  of  his  alliance 
with  the  Shaw  family.  They  were  early  and  ardent 
abolitionists.  His  wife's  brother  was  Robert  Gould 
Shaw,  who  fell  with  his  blacks  at  Fort  Wagner. 
Even  in  the  summer  of  his  engagement,  1856,  Curtis 
made  his  first  important  appearance  as  an  anti- 
slavery  speaker,  before  the  students  of  Wesleyan 
University.  Three  years  later  a  mob  in  Philadel 
phia  paid  him  what  the  Rev.  Dr.  Chadwick  has 
called  "the  finest  compliment  that  Curtis  ever  re 
ceived"  by  throwing  stones  and  vitriol  through  the 
window  of  a  hall  in  which  he  was  delivering  an 
antislavery  address.  His  voice  could  be  heard  only 
at  rare  intervals,  but  then,  according  to  one  who  was 
present,  it  was  firm  and  clear  and  resonant.  The 
boy  of  Brook  Farm  and  Concord,  the  musing  travel 
ler  and  imaginative  writer,  was  fairly  embarked  on 
the  rough  voyage  of  public  affairs  across  the  sea  of 
troubles  which  even  our  Civil  War  did  not  bring  to 
an  end. 

Instead  of  making  the  vain  attempt  to  follow  him 
through  all  his  relations  with  the  politics  of  his 
time,  let  us  see  what  he  showed  himself  to  be  more 
than  once  when  the  demands  upon  his  courage  and 
clearness  of  vision  were  most  exacting.  In  the  con 
vention  which  nominated  Lincoln  for  his  first  term 
in  the  Presidency,  a  motion  to  incorporate  in  the 
platform  the  words  from  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence  which  proclaimed  all  men  free  and  equal, 
was  defeated  by  the  half-hearted  opponents  of  sla- 


INTRODUCTION. 


very.  The  result  of  the  vote  was  greeted  with  a  tu 
mult  of  delight.  In  the  midst  of  it  Curtis,  a  delegate 
from  New  York,  rose  in  his  place  and  tried,  at  first 
in  vain,  to  make  his  voice  heard.  He  folded  his 
arms  and  faced  the  crowd  until  they  could  hear  him 
declare,  "  Gentlemen,  this  is  the  convention  of  free 
speech,  and  I  have  been  given  the  floor.  I  have  only 
a  few  words  to  say  to  you,  but  I  shall  say  them  if  I 
stand  here  until  to-morrow  morning."  When  he  was 
permitted  to  go  on,  he  put  the  lost  resolution  into  a 
new  form,  and  argued  its  justice  with  such  vigor  and 
skill  that  the  defeat  gave  way,  upon  a  second  vote, 
to  victory.  Men  of  this  mettle  were  needed  for  the 
support  of  the  elected  Lincoln,  and  when  Curtis,  at 
about  the  middle  of  the  war  time,  was  made  the 
editor  of  Harper's  Weekly,  he  gave  to  its  political 
columns  the  full  measure  of  his  personal  strength, 
and  turned  them  into  effective  weapons  of  loyalty 
and  truth. 

To  his  continuance  of  this  political  writing  and  to 
the  qualities  in  the  man  which  it  was  constantly 
displaying  Curtis  must  at  least  in  part  have  owed 
his  appointment  as  chairman  of  the  commission 
created  in  1871  by  President  Grant  to  inquire  into 
the  means  of  bettering  our  Civil  Service.  The  chief 
burden  of  the  work  rested  upon  the  shoulders  of 
Curtis,  and  the  rules  which  the  commission  pro 
posed  were  followed  for  a  time  with  admirable 
results.  It  was  perhaps  too  much  to  hope  that  the 
"  practical  politicians  "  would  not  reassert  their 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

might.  Yet  for  such  reforms  in  the  Civil  Service  as 
the  years  between  1871  and  the  present  have  seen,  the 
labors  of  Curtis,  both  as  a  member  of  the  original 
commission  and  as  president,  until  his  death,  of  the 
National  Civil  Service  Reform  League,  must  be  pre 
eminently  thanked.  And  surely  these  labors  lose 
nothing  of  their  value  in  our  eyes  when  we  remem 
ber  that  Curtis  at  various  times  might  have  served 
his  country  as  minister  at  one  and  another  of  the 
most  important  courts  of  Europe. 

At  yet  another  Republican  National  Convention 
Curtis  gave  striking  proof  of  his  personal  indepen 
dence.  This  was  in  1884,  while  the  nomination  of 
Elaine  was  still  uncertain.  A  motion  attempting  to 
bind  every  delegate  to  support  the  nominee,  who 
ever  might  be  chosen,  was  introduced.  Curtis  may 
have  foreseen  the  action  the  convention  was  to  take. 
In  any  event  he  promptly  made  this  emphatic  pro 
test  :  "  A  Republican  and  a  free  man  I  came  to  this 
convention,  and  by  the  grace  of  God  a  Republican 
and  a  free  man  will  I  go  out  of  it."  So  free,  indeed, 
he  held  himself  throughout  the  ensuing  campaign 
to  take  the  course  of  which  his  conscience  approved, 
that  he  was  recognized  everywhere  as  the  leader  of 
the  Independent  revolt  which  helped  to  secure  the 
election  of  President  Cleveland. 

Mr.  Edward  Gary,  in  his  biography  of  Curtis,  has 
said  that  if  he  had  written  nothing  but  "  Prue  and 
I "  "  his  fame  in  one  sense  would  rather  have  gained 
than  suffered."  The  words  "  in  one  sense  "  are  well 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

introduced,  for  the  total  work  of  Curtis  cannot  be 
regarded  in  any  single  aspect.  It  has  been  possible 
here  only  to  look  at  some  of  its  most  salient  phases. 
Of  his  distinct  achievements  as  an  orator,  as  an 
essayist,  writing,  if  you  will,  altogether  in  the 
"  Easy  Chair,"  as  an  editor,  as  a  creator  of  litera 
ture,  separate  papers  more  searching  than  this 
might  well  be  written.  Here  we  are  chiefly  con 
cerned  with  Curtis  as  the  author  of  "  Prue  and  I." 
The  book,  then,  may  best  be  read  not  wholly  for  its 
own  sake,  but  for  all  it  suggests  of  the  possibility, 
almost  in  our  own  day  and  generation,  of  blending 
the  ideal  with  the  actual.  Of  all  Americans  Curtis 
presents  probably  the  most  stimulating  example  of 
what  a  man  of  letters  can  do  as  a  man  of  action. 
Every  quality  of  imagination,  sanity,  humor,  gentle 
ness,  and  strength  which  marked  his  work  in  litera 
ture  characterized  his  dealings  with  affairs.  We 
hardly  need  remind  ourselves  that  such  work  —  both 
in  books  and  in  politics  —  is  not  only  for  a  day. 

At  Staten  Island,  where  he  had  lived  since  his 
marriage,  Curtis  died  on  August  31,  1892. 

M.  A.  DEWOLFE  HOWE. 

MAY,  1899. 


DINNER-TIME. 

"  Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time ; 
I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings." 
Comedy  of  Errors. 


DINNER-TIME. 

"  Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time  ; 
I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings." 
Comedy  of  Errors. 

IN  the  warm  afternoons  of  the  early  summer 
it  is  my  pleasure  to  stroll  about  Washington 
Square  and  along  the  Fifth  Avenue,  at  the  hour 
when  the  diners-out  are  hurrying  to  the  tables 
of  the  wealthy  and  refined.  I  gaze  with  placid 
delight  upon  the  cheerful  expanse  of  white 
waistcoat  that  illumes  those  streets  at  that 
hour,  and  mark  the  variety  of  emotions  that 
swell  beneath  all  that  purity.  A  man  going 
out  to  dine  has  a  singular  cheerfulness  of 
aspect.  Except  for  his  gloves,  which  fit  so 
well,  and  which  he  has  carefully  buttoned, 
that  he  may  not  make  an  awkward  pause  in 
the  hall  of  his  friend's  house,  I  am  sure  he 
would  search  his  pocket  for  a  cent  to  give  the 
wan  beggar  at  the  corner.  It  is  impossible 
just  now,  my  dear  woman ;  but  God  bless  you ! 
3 


4  PRUE   AND   I. 

It  is  pleasant  to  consider  that  simple  suit  of 
black.  If  my  man  be  young  and  only  lately 
cognizant  of  the  rigors  of  the  social  law,  he  is 
a  little  nervous  at  being  seen  in  his  dress-suit 
—  body  coat  and  black  trousers  —  before  sun 
set.  For  in  the  last  days  of  May  the  light 
lingers  long  over  the  freshly  leaved  trees  in 
the  square,  and  lies  warm  along  the  avenue. 
All  winter  the  sun  has  not  been  permitted  to 
see  dress-coats.  They  come  out  only  with  the 
stars,  and  fade  with  ghosts,  before  the  dawn. 
Except,  haply,  they  be  brought  homeward  be 
fore  breakfast  in  an  early  twilight  of  hackney- 
coach.  Now,  in  the  budding  and  bursting 
summer,  the  sun  takes  his  revenge,  and  looks 
aslant  over  the  tree-tops  and  the  chimneys 
upon  the  most  unimpeachable  garments.  A 
cat  may  look  upon  a  king. 

I  know  my  man  at  a  distance.  If  I  am 
chatting  with  the  nursery  maids  around  the 
fountain,  I  see  him  upon  the  broad  walk  of 
Washington  Square,  and  detect  him  by  the 
freshness  of  his  movement,  his  springy  gait. 
Then  the  white  waistcoat  flashes  in  the 
sun. 

"Go  on,  happy  youth,"  I  exclaim  aloud,  to 
the  great  alarm  of  the  nursery  maids,  who  sup- 


DINNER-TIME.  5 

pose  me  to  be  an  innocent  insane  person  suf 
fered  to  go  at  large,  unattended,  —  "  go  on,  and 
be  happy  with  fellow  waistcoats  over  fragrant 
wines." 

It  is  hard  to  describe  the  pleasure  in  this 
amiable  spectacle  of  a  man  going  out  to  dine. 
I,  who  am  a  quiet  family  man,  and  take  a 
quiet  family  cut  at  four  o'clock ;  or,  when  I 
am  detained  down  town  by  a  false  quantity 
in  my  figures,  who  run  into  Delmonico's  and 
seek  comfort  in  a  cutlet,  am  rarely  invited  to 
dinner  and  have  few  white  waistcoats.  In 
deed,  my  dear  Prue  tells  me  that  I  have  but 
one  in  the  world,  and  I  often  want  to  con 
front  my  eager  young  friends  as  they  bound 
along,  and  ask  abruptly,  "What  do  you  think 
of  a  man  whom  one  white  waistcoat  suffices  ?  " 

By  the  time  I  have  eaten  my  modest  repast, 
it  is  the  hour  for  the  diners-out  to  appear.  If 
the  day  is  unusually  soft  and  sunny,  I  hurry 
my  simple  meal  a  little,  that  I  may  not  lose 
any  of  my  favorite  spectacle.  Then  I  saunter 
out.  If  you  met  me  you  would  see  that  I  am 
also  clad  in  black.  But  black  is  my  natural 
color,  so  that  it  begets  no  false  theories  con 
cerning  my  intentions.  Nobody,  meeting  me  in 
full  black,  supposes  that  I  am  going  to  dine 


6  PBUE   AND   I. 

out.  That  sombre  hue  is  professional  with 
me.  It  belongs  to  book-keepers  as  to  clergy 
men,  physicians,  and  undertakers.  We  wear 
it  because  we  follow  solemn  callings.  Saving 
men's  bodies  and  souls,  or  keeping  the  ma 
chinery  of  business  well  wound,  are  such  sad 
professions  that  it  is  becoming  to  drape  dole 
fully  those  who  adopt  them. 

I  wear  a  white  cravat,  too,  but  nobody  sup 
poses  that  it  is  in  any  danger  of  being  stained 
by  Lafitte.  It  is  a  limp  cravat  with  a  craven 
tie.  It  has  none  of  the  dazzling  dash  of  the 
white  that  my  young  friends  sport,  or,  I  should 
say,  sported ;  for  the  white  cravat  is  now  aban 
doned  to  the  sombre  professions  of  which  I 
spoke.  My  young  friends  suspect  that  the 
flunkeys  of  the  British  nobleman  wear  such 
ties,  and  they  have,  therefore,  discarded  them. 
I  am  sorry  to  remark,  also,  an  uneasiness,  if 
not  downright  scepticism,  about  the  white 
waistcoat.  Will  it  extend  to  shirts,  I  ask 
myself  with  sorrow. 

But  there  is  something  pleasanter  to  con 
template  during  these  quiet  strolls  of  mine, 
than  the  men  who  are  going  to  dine  out,  and 
that  is,  the  women.  They  roll  in  carriages  to 
the  happy  houses  which  they  shall  honor,  and 


DINNER-TIME.  7 

I  strain  my  eyes  in  at  the  carriage  window  to 
see  their  cheerful  faces  as  they  pass.  I  have 
already  dined;  upon  beef  and  cabbage,  prob 
ably,  if  it  is  boiled  day.  I  am  not  expected 
at  the  table  to  which  Aurelia  is  hastening,  yet 
no  guest  there  shall  enjoy  more  than  I  enjoy, 
—  nor  so  much,  if  he  considers  the  meats  the 
best  part  of  the  dinner.  The  beauty  of  the 
beautiful  Aurelia  I  see  and  worship  as  she 
drives  by.  The  vision  of  many  beautiful  Au- 
relias  driving  to  dinner  is  the  mirage  of  that 
pleasant  journey  of  mine  along  the  avenue.  I 
do  not  envy  the  Persian  poets,  on  those  after 
noons,  nor  long  to  be  an  Arabian  traveller.  For 
I  can  walk  that  street,  finer  than  any  of  which 
the  Ispahan  architects  dreamed;  and  I  can  see 
sultanas  as  splendid  as  the  enthusiastic  and 
exaggerating  Orientals  describe. 

But  not  only  do  I  see  and  enjoy  Aurelia's 
beauty.  I  delight  in  her  exquisite  attire.  In 
these  warm  days  she  does  not  wear  so  much  as 
the  lightest  shawl.  She  is  clad  only  in  spring 
sunshine.  It  glitters  in  the  soft  darkness  of 
her  hair.  It  touches  the  diamonds,  the  opals, 
the  pearls,  that  cling  to  her  arms,  and  neck, 
and  fingers.  They  flash  back  again,  and  the 
gorgeous  silks  glisten,  and  the  light  laces 


8  PRUE   AND   I. 

flutter,  until  the  stately  Aurelia  seems  to  mej 
in  tremulous  radiance,  swimming  by. 

I  doubt  whether  you  who  are  to  have  the 
inexpressible  pleasure  of  dining  with  her,  and 
even  of  sitting  by  her  side,  will  enjoy  more 
than  I.  For  my  pleasure  is  inexpressible,  also. 
And  it  is  in  this  greater  than  yours,  that  I  see 
all  the  beautiful  ones  who  are  to  dine  at  various 
tables,  while  you  only  see  your  own  circle, 
although  that,  I  will  not  deny,  is  the  most 
desirable  of  all. 

Beside,  although  my  person  is  not  present  at 
your  dinner,  my  fancy  is.  I  see  Aurelia's  car 
riage  stop,  and  behold  white-gloved  servants 
opening  wide  doors.  There  is  a  brief  glimpse 
of  magnificence  for  the  dull  eyes  of  the  loiter 
ers  outside;  then  the  door  closes.  But  my 
fancy  went  in  with  Aurelia.  With  her,  it 
looks  at  the  vast  mirror,  and  surveys  her 
form  at  length  in  the  Psyche-glass.  It  gives 
the  final  shake  to  the  skirt,  the  last  flirt  to 
the  embroidered  handkerchief,  carefully  held, 
and  adjusts  the  bouquet,  complete  as  a  tropic 
nestling  in  orange  leaves.  It  descends  with 
her,  and  marks  the  faint  blush  upon  her  cheek 
at  the  thought  of  her  exceeding  beauty  ;  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  most  beautiful  woman,  that  the 


DINNER-TIME.  9 

most  beautiful  woman  is  entering  the  room. 
There  is  the  momentary  hush,  the  subdued 
greeting,  the  quick  glance  of  the  Aurelias  who 
have  arrived  earlier,  and  who  perceive  in  a 
moment  the  hopeless  perfection  of  that  attire ; 
the  courtly  gaze  of  gentlemen,  who  feel  the 
serenity  of  that  beauty.  All  this  my  fancy 
surveys ;  my  fancy,  Aurelia's  invisible  cavalier. 

You  approach  with  hat  in  hand  and  the 
thumb  of  your  left  hand  in  your  waistcoat 
pocket.  You  are  polished  and  cool,  and  have 
an  irreproachable  repose  of  manner.  There 
are  no  improper  wrinkles  in  your  cravat ;  your 
shirt-bosom  does  not  bulge;  the  trousers  are 
accurate  about  your  admirable  boot.  But  you 
look  very  stiff  and  brittle.  You  are  a  little 
bullied  by  your  unexceptionable  shirt-collar, 
which  interdicts  perfect  freedom  of  movement 
in  your  head.  You  are  elegant,  undoubtedly, 
but  it  seems  as  if  you  might  break  and  fall  to 
pieces,  like  a  porcelain  vase,  if  you  were  roughly 
shaken. 

Now,  here,  I  have  the  advantage  of  you.  My 
fancy  quietly  surveying  the  scene,  is  subject  to 
none  of  these  embarrassments.  My  fancy  will 
not  utter  commonplaces.  That  will  not  say  to 
the  superb  lady,  who  stands  with  her  flowers, 


10  PRUE   AND    I. 

incarnate  May,  "What  a  beautiful  day,  Miss 
Aurelia."  That  will  not  feel  constrained  to 
say  something,  when  it  has  nothing  to  say  ;  nor 
will  it  be  obliged  to  smother  all  the  pleasant 
things  that  occur,  because  they  would  be  too 
flattering  to  express.  My  fancy  perpetually 
murmurs  in  Aurelia's  ear:  "Those  flowers 
would  not^be  fair  in  your  hand,  if  you  your 
self  were  not  fairer.  That  diamond  necklace 
would  be  gaudy,  if  your  eyes  were  not  brighter. 
That  queenly  movement  would  be  awkward,  if 
your  soul  were  not  queenlier." 

You  could  not  say  such  things  to  Aurelia, 
although,  if  you  are  worthy  to  dine  at  her  side, 
they  are  the  very  things  you  are  longing  to 
say.  What  insufferable  stuff  you  are  talking 
about  the  weather,  and  the  opera,  and  Alboni's 
delicious  voice,  and  Newport,  and  Saratoga! 
They  are  all  very  pleasant  subjects,  but  do  you 
suppose  Ixion  talked  Thessalian  politics  when 
he  was  admitted  to  dine  with  Juno  ? 

I  almost  begin  to  pity  you,  and  to  believe 
that  a  scarcity  of  white  waistcoats  is  true  wis 
dom.  For  now  dinner  is  announced,  and  you, 
0  rare  felicity,  are  to  hand  down  Aurelia.  But 
you  run  the  risk  of  tumbling  her  expansive 
skirt,  and  you  have  to  drop  your  hat  upon  a 


DINNER-TIME.  11 

chance  chair,  and  wonder,  en  passant,  who  will 
wear  it  home,  which  is  annoying.  My  fancy 
runs  no  such  risk ;  is  not  at  all  solicitous  about 
its  hat,  and  glides  by  the  side  of  Aurelia, 
stately  as  she!  There!  you  stumble  on  the 
stair,  and  are  vexed  at  your  own  awkwardness, 
and  are  sure  you  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile  glim 
mer  along  that  superb  face  at  your  side.  My 
fancy  doesn't  tumble  downstairs,  and  what 
kind  of  looks  it  sees  upon  Aurelia's  face,  are 
its  own  secret. 

Is  it  any  better,  now  you  are  seated  at  table  ? 
Your  companion  eats  little  because  she  wishes 
little.  You  eat  little  because  you  think  it  is 
elegant  to  do  so.  It  is  a  shabby,  second-hand 
elegance,  like  your  brittle  behavior.  It  is  just 
as  foolish  for  you  to  play  with  the  meats,  when 
you  ought  to  satisfy  your  healthy  appetite 
generously,  as  it  is  for  you,  in  the  drawing- 
room,  to  affect  that  cool  indifference  when  you 
have  real  and  noble  interests. 

I  grant  you  that  fine  manners,  if  you  please, 
are  a  fine  art.  But  is  not  monotony  the  de 
struction  of  art?  Your  manners,  0  happy 
Ixion,  banqueting  with  Juno,  are  Egyptian. 
They  have  no  perspective,  no  variety.  They 
have  no  color,  no  shading.  They  are  all  on  a 


12  PRUE  AND  I. 

dead  level;  they  are  flat.  Now,  for  you  are 
a  man  of  sense,  you  are  conscious  that  those 
wonderful  eyes  of  Aurelia  see  straight  through 
all  this  network  of  elegant  manners  in  which 
you  have  entangled  yourself,  and  that  con 
sciousness  is  uncomfortable  to  you.  It  is 
another  trick  in  the  game  for  me,  because 
those  eyes  do  not  pry  into  my  fancy.  How 
can  they,  since  Aurelia  does  not  know  of  my 
existence  ? 

Unless,  indeed,  she  should  remember  the 
first  time  I  saw  her.  It  was  only  last  year,  in 
May.  I  had  dined,  somewhat  hastily,  in  con 
sideration  of  the  fine  day,  and  of  my  confidence 
that  many  would  be  wending  dinnerward  that 
afternoon.  I  saw  my  Prue  comfortably  en 
gaged  in  seating  the  trousers  of  Adoniram,  our 
eldest  boy  —  an  economical  care  to  which  my 
darling  Prue  is  not  unequal,  even  in  these  days 
and  in  this  town  —  and  then  hurried  toward 
the  avenue.  It  is  never  much  thronged  at  that 
hour.  The  moment  is  sacred  to  dinner.  As  I 
paused  at  the  corner  of  Twelfth  Street,  by  the 
church,  you  remember,  I  saw  an  apple-woman, 
from  whose  stores  I  determined  to  finish  my 
dessert,  which  .had  been  imperfect  at  home. 
But,  mindful  of  meritorious  and  economical 


DINNER-TIME.  13 

Prue,  I  was  not  the  man  to  pay  exorbitant 
prices  for  apples,  and  while  still  haggling  with 
the  wrinkled  Eve  who  had  tempted  me,  I 
became  suddenly  aware  of  a  carriage  approach 
ing,  and,  indeed,  already  close  by.  I  raised 
my  eyes,  still  munching  an  apple  which  I  held 
in  one  hand,  while  the  other  grasped  my 
walking-stick  (true  to  my  instincts  of  dinner 
guests,  as  young  women  to  a  passing  wed 
ding  or  old  ones  to  a  funeral),  and  beheld 
Aurelia ! 

Old  in  this  kind  of  observation  as  I  am, 
there  was  something  so  graciously  alluring  in 
the  look  that  she  cast  upon  me,  as  uncon 
sciously,  indeed,  as  she  would  have  cast  it 
upon  the  church,  that,  fumbling  hastily  for  my 
spectacles  to  enjoy  the  boon  more  fully,  I 
thoughtlessly  advanced  upon  the  apple-stand, 
and,  in  some  indescribable  manner,  tripping, 
down  we  all  fell  into  the  street,  old  woman, 
apples,  baskets,  stand,  and  I,  in  promiscuous 
confusion.  As  I  struggled  there,  somewhat 
bewildered,  yet  sufficiently  self-possessed  to 
look  after  the  carriage,  I  beheld  that  beautiful 
woman  looking  at  us  through  the  back  window 
(you  could  not  have  done  it ;  the  integrity  of 
your  shirt-collar  would  have  interfered),  and 


14  PBTJE  AND  I. 

smiling  pleasantly,  so  that  her  going  around 
the  corner  was  like  a  gentle  sunset,  so  seemed 
she  to  disappear  in  her  own  smiling ;  or  —  if 
you  choose,  in  view  of  the  apple  difficulties  — 
like  a  rainbow  after  a  storm. 

If  the  beautiful  Aurelia  recalls  that  event, 
she  may  know  of  my  existence ;  not  otherwise. 
And  even  then  she  knows  me  only  as  a  funny 
old  gentleman  who,  in  his  eagerness  to  look  at 
her,  tumbled  over  an  apple-woman. 

My  fancy  from  that  moment  followed  her. 
How  grateful  I  was  to  the  wrinkled  Eve's  ex 
tortion,  and  to  the  untoward  tumble,  since  it 
procured  me  the  sight  of  that  smile.  I  took 
my  sweet  revenge  from  that.  For  I  knew  that 
the  beautiful  Aurelia  entered  the  house  of  her 
host  with  beaming  eyes,  and  my  fancy  heard 
her  sparkling  story.  You  consider  yourself 
happy  because  you  are  sitting  by  her  and  help 
ing  her  to  a  lady-finger,  or  a  macaroon,  for 
which  she  smiles.  But  I  was  her  theme  for 
ten  mortal  minutes.  She  was  my  bard,  my 
blithe  historian.  She  was  the  Homer  of  my 
luckless  Trojan  fall.  She  set  my  mishap  to 
music,  in  telling  it.  Think  what  it  is  to  have 
inspired  Urania;  to  have  called  a  brighter 
beam  into  the  eyes  of  Miranda,  and  do  not 


DINNER-TIME.  15 

think  so  much  of  passing  Aurelia  the  mottoes, 
my  dear  young  friend. 

There  was  the  advantage  of  not  going  to 
that  dinner.  Had  I  been  invited,  as  you  were, 
I  should  have  pestered  Prue  about  the  buttons 
on  my  white  waistcoat,  instead  of  leaving  her 
placidly  piecing  adolescent  trousers.  She 
would  have  been  flustered,  fearful  of  being  too 
late,  of  tumbling  the  garment,  of  soiling  it, 
fearful  of  offending  me  in  some  way  (admira 
ble  woman!).  I,  in  my  natural  impatience, 
might  have  let  drop  a  thoughtless  word,  which 
would  have  been  a  pang  in  her  heart  and  a 
tear  in  her  eye,  for  weeks  afterward. 

As  I  walked  nervously  up  the  avenue  (for  I 
am  unaccustomed  to  prandial  recreations),  I 
should  not  have  had  that  solacing  image  of 
quiet  Prue,  and  the  trousers,  as  the  back 
ground  in  the  pictures  of  the  gay  figures  I 
passed,  making  each,  by  contrast,  fairer.  I 
should  have  been  wondering  what  to  say  and 
do  at  the  dinner.  I  should  surely  have  been 
very  warm,  and  yet  not  have  enjoyed  the  rich, 
waning  sunlight.  Need  I  tell  you  that  I 
should  not  have  stopped  for  apples,  but  in 
stead  of  economically  tumbling  into  the  street 
with  apples  and  apple-women,  whereby  I 


16  PRUE  AND  I. 

merely  rent  my  trousers  across  the  knee,  in 
a  manner  that  Prue  can  readily,  and  at  little 
cost,  repair,  I  should,  beyond  peradventure, 
have  split  a  new  dollar  pair  of  gloves  in  the 
effort  of  straining  my  large  hands  into  them, 
which  would,  also,  have  caused  me  additional 
redness  in  the  face,  and  renewed  fluttering. 

Above  all,  I  should  not  have  seen  Aurelia 
passing  in  her  carriage,  nor  would  she  have 
smiled  at  me,  nor  charmed  my  memory  with 
her  radiance,  nor  the  circle  at  dinner  with  the 
sparkling  Iliad  of  my  woes.  Then  at  the 
table,  I  should  not  have  sat  by  her.  You 
would  have  had  that  pleasure ;  I  should  have 
led  out  the  maiden  aunt  from  the  country,  and 
have  talked  poultry,  when  I  talked  at  all. 
Aurelia  would  not  have  remarked  me.  After 
ward,  in  describing  the  dinner  to  her  virtuous 
parents,  she  would  have  concluded,  "and  one 
old  gentleman,  whom  I  didn't  know." 

No,  my  polished  friend,  whose  elegant  re 
pose  of  manner  I  yet  greatly  commend,  I  am 
content,  if  you  are.  How  much  better  it  was 
that  I  was  not  invited  to  that  dinner,  but  was 
permitted,  by  a  kind  fate,  to  furnish  a  subject 
for  Aurelia's  wit. 

There  is  one  other   advantage  in  sending 


DINTSTEE-TIME.  17 

your  fancy  to  dinner,  instead  of  going  your 
self.  It  is,  that  then  the  occasion  remains 
wholly  fair  in  your  memory.  You,  who  devote 
yourself  to  dining  out,  and  who  are  to  be  daily 
seen  affably  sitting  down  to  such  feasts,  as  I 
know  mainly  by  hearsay  —  by  the  report  of 
waiters,  guests,  and  others  who  were  present 
—  you  cannot  escape  the  little  things  that 
spoil  the  picture,  and  which  the  fancy  does  not 
see. 

For  instance,  in  handing  you  the  potage  &  la 
Bisque,  at  the  very  commencement  of  this  din 
ner,  to-day,  John,  the  waiter,  who  never  did 
such  a  thing  before,  did  this  time  suffer  the 
plate  to  tip,  so  that  a  little  of  that  rare  soup 
dripped  into  your  lap — just  enough  to  spoil 
those  trousers,  which  is  nothing  to  you,  be 
cause  you  can  buy  a  great  many  more  trousers, 
but  which  little  event  is  inharmonious  with 
the  fine  porcelain  dinner  service,  with  the  fra 
grant  wines,  the  glittering  glass,  the  beautiful 
guests,  and  the  mood  of  mind  suggested  by  all 
of  these.  There  is,  in  fact,  if  you  will  pardon 
a  free  use  of  the  vernacular,  there  is  a  grease- 
spot  upon  your  remembrance  of  this  dinner. 

Or,  in  the  same  way,  and  with  the  same  kind 
of  mental  result,  you  can  easily  imagine  the 


18        -  PRTJE  AND  I. 

meats  a  little  tough ;  a  suspicion  of  smoke 
somewhere  in  the  sauces ;  too  much  pepper, 
perhaps,  or  too  little  salt ;  or  there  might  be 
the  graver  dissonance  of  claret  not  properly 
attempered,  or  a  choice  Ehenish  below  the 
average  mark,  or  the  spilling  of  some  of  that 
Arethusa  Madeira,  marvellous  for  its  innu 
merable  circumnavigations  of  the  globe,  and  for 
being  as  dry  as  the  conversation  of  the  host. 
These  things  are  not  up  to  the  high  level  of 
the  dinner;  for  wherever  Aurelia  dines,  all 
accessories  should  be  as  perfect  in  their  kind 
as  she,  the  principal,  is  in  hers. 

That  reminds  me  of  a  possible  dissonance 
worse  than  all.  Suppose  that  soup  had  trickled 
down  the  unimaginable  berthe  of  Aurelia's  dress 
(since  it  might  have  done  so),  instead  of  wast 
ing  itself  upon  your  trousers  !  Could  even  the 
irreproachable  elegance  of  your  manners  have 
contemplated,  unmoved,  a  grease-spot  upon 
your  remembrance  of  the  peerless  Aurelia  ? 

You  smile,  of  course,  and  remind  me  that 
that  lady's  manners  are  so  perfect  that,  if  she 
drank  poison,  she  would  wipe  her  mouth  after 
it  as  gracefully  as  ever.  How  much  more  then, 
you  say,  in  the  case  of  such  a  slight  contretemps 
as  spotting  her  dress,  would  she  appear  totally 
unmoved. 


DINNER-TIME.  19 

So  she  would,  undoubtedly.  She  would  be, 
and  look,  as  pure  as  ever;  but,  my  young 
friend,  her  dress  would  not.  Once,  I  dropped 
a  pickled  oyster  in  the  lap  of  my  Prue,  who 
wore,  on  the  occasion,  her  sea-green  silk  gown. 
I  did  not  love  my  Prue  the  less;  but  there 
certainly  was  a  very  unhandsome  spot  upon 
her  dress.  And  although  I  know  my  Prue  to 
be  spotless,  yet,  whenever  I  recall  that  day,  I 
see  her  in  a  spotted  gown,  and  I  would  prefer 
never  to  have  been  obliged  to  think  of  her  in 
such  a  garment. 

Can  you  not  make  the  application  to  the 
case,  very  likely  to  happen,  of  some  disfigure 
ment  of  that  exquisite  toilette  of  Aurelia's? 
In  going  downstairs,  for  instance,  why  should 
not  heavy  old  Mr.  Carbuncle,  who  is  coming 
close  behind  with  Mrs.  Peony,  both  very  eager 
for  dinner,  tread  upon  the  hem  of  that  garment 
which  my  lips  would  grow  pale  to  kiss  ?  The 
august  Aurelia,  yielding  to  natural  laws,  would 
be  drawn  suddenly  backward  —  a  very  undig 
nified  movement  —  and  the  dress  would  be 
dilapidated.  There  would  be  apologies,  and 
smiles,  and  forgiveness,  and  pinning  up  the 
pieces,  nor  would  there  be  the  faintest  feeling 
of  awkwardness  or  vexation  in  Aurelia's  miud. 


20  PRUE  AND   I. 

But  to  you,  looking  on,  and,  beneath  all  that 
pure  show  of  waistcoat,  cursing  old  Carbuncle's 
carelessness,  this  tearing  of  dresses  and  repair 
of  the  toilette  is  by  no  means  a  poetic  and 
cheerful  spectacle.  Nay,  the  very  impatience 
that  it  produces  in  your  mind  jars  upon  the 
harmony  of  the  moment. 

You  will  respond,  with  proper  scorn,  that 
you  are  not  so  absurdly  fastidious  as  to  heed 
the  little  necessary  drawbacks  of  social  meet 
ings,  and  that  you  have  not  much  regard  for 
"the  harmony  of  the  occasion"  (which  phrase 
I  fear  you  will  repeat  in  a  sneering  tone). 
You  will  do  very  right  in  saying  this;  and  it 
is  a  remark  to  which  I  shall  give  all  the  hospi 
tality  of  my  mind,  and  I  do  so  because  I 
heartily  coincide  in  it.  I  hold  a  man  to  be 
very  foolish  who  will  not  eat  a  good  dinner 
because  the  table-cloth  is  not  clean,  or  who 
cavils  at  the  spots  upon  the  sun.  But  still  a 
man  who  does  not  apply  his  eye  to  a  telescope 
or  some  kind  of .  prepared  medium,  does  not 
see  those  spots,  while  he  has  just  as  much 
light  and  heat  as  he  who  does. 

So  it  is  with  me.  I  walk  in  the  avenue,  and 
eat  all  the  delightful  dinners  without  seeing 
the  spots  upon  the  table-cloth,  and  behold  all 


DINNER-TIME.  21 

the  beautiful  Aurelias  without  swearing  at  old 
Carbuncle.  I  am  the  guest  who,  for  the  small 
price  of  invisibility,  drinks  only  the  best  wines, 
and  talks  only  to  the  most  agreeable  people. 
That  is  something,  I  can  tell  you,  for  you 
might  be  asked  to  lead  out  old  Mrs.  Peony. 
My  fancy  slips  in  between  you  and  Aurelia, 
sit  you  never  so  closely  together.  It  not  only 
hears  what  she  says,  but  it  perceives  what  she 
thinks  and  feels.  It  lies  like  a  bee  in  her 
flowery  thoughts,  sucking  all  their  honey.  If 
there  are  unhandsome  or  unfeeling  guests  at 
table,  it  will  not  see  them.  It  knows  only  the 
good  and  fair.  As  I  stroll  in  the  fading  light 
and  observe  the  stately  houses,  my  fancy  be 
lieves  the  host  equal  to  his  house,  and  the 
courtesy  of  his  wife  more  agreeable  than  her 
conservatory.  It  will  not  believe  that  the 
pictures  on  the  wall  and  the  statues  in  the 
corners  shame  the  guests.  It  will  not  allow 
that  they  are  less  than  noble.  It  hears  them 
speak  gently  of  error,  and  warmly  of  worth. 
It  knows  that  they  commend  heroism  and 
devotion,  and  reprobate  insincerity.  My  fancy 
is  convinced  that  the  guests  are  not  only 
feasted  upon  the  choicest  fruits  of  every  land 
and  season,  but  are  refreshed  by  a  conscious- 


22  PRTTE   AND   I. 

ness  of  greater  loveliness  and  grace  in  human 
character. 

Now  you,  who  actually  go  to  the  dinner, 
may  not  entirely  agree  with  the  view  my  fancy 
takes  of  that  entertainment.  Is  it  not,  there 
fore,  rather  your  loss?  Or,  to  put  it  in  an 
other  way,  ought  I  to  envy  you  the  discovery 
that  the  guests  are  shamed  by  the  statues  and 
pictures;  —  yes,  and  by  the  spoons  and  forks 
also,  if  they  should  chance  neither  to  be  so 
genuine  nor  so  useful  as  those  instruments? 
And,  worse  than  this,  when  your  fancy  wishes 
to  enjoy  the  picture  which  mine  forms  of  that 
feast,  it  cannot  do  so,  because  you  have  fool 
ishly  interpolated  the  fact  between  the  dinner 
and  your  fancy. 

Of  course,  by  this  time  it  is  late  twilight, 
and  the  spectacle  I  enjoyed  is  almost  over. 
But  not  quite,  for  as  I  return  slowly  along  the 
streets,  the  windows  are  open,  and  only  a  thin 
haze  of  lace  or  muslin  separates  me  from  the 
Paradise  within. 

I  see  the  graceful  cluster  of  girls  hovering 
over  the  piano,  and  the  quiet  groups  of  the 
elders  in  easy-chairs  around  little  tables.  I 
cannot  hear  what  is  said,  nor  plainly  see  the 
faces.  But  some  hoyden  evening  wind,  more 


DINNER-TIME.  23 

daring  than  I,  abruptly  parts  the  cloud  to  look 
in,  and  out  comes  a  gush  of  light,  music,  and 
fragrance,  so  that  I  shrink  away  into  the  dark, 
that  I  may  not  seem,  even  by  chance,  to  have 
invaded  that  privacy. 

Suddenly  there  is  singing.  It  is  Aurelia, 
who  does  not  cope  with  the  Italian  Prima 
Donna,  nor  sing  indifferently  to-night  what 
was  sung  superbly  last  evening  at  the  opera. 
She  has  a  strange,  low,  sweet  voice,  as  if  she 
only  sang  in  the  twilight.  It  is  the  ballad  of 
"  Allan  Percy  "  that  she  sings.  There  is  no 
dainty  applause  of  kid  gloves,  when  it  is  ended, 
but  silence  follows  the  singing,  like  a  tear. 

Then  you,  my  young  friend,  ascend  into  the 
drawing-room,  and,  after  a  little  graceful  gossip, 
retire ;  or  you  wait,  possibly,  to  hand  Aurelia 
into  her  carriage,  and  to  arrange  a  waltz  for 
to-morrow  evening.  She  smiles,  you  bow,  and 
it  is  over.  But  it  is  not  yet  over  with  me. 
My  fancy  still  follows  her,  and  like  a  prophetic 
dream,  rehearses  her  destiny.  For,  as  the  car 
riage  rolls  away  into  the  darkness  and  I  return 
homeward,  how  can  my  fancy  help  rolling  away 
also,  into  the  dim  future,  watching  her  go  down 
the  years  ? 

Upon  my  way  home  I  see  her  in  a  thousand 


24  PRUE  AND  I. 

new  situations.  My  fancy  says  to  me  :  "  The 
beauty  of  this  beautiful  woman  is  heaven's 
stamp  upon  virtue.  She  will  be  equal  to  every 
chance  that  shall  befall  her,  and  she  is  so 
radiant  and  charming  in  the  circle  of  pros 
perity,  only  because  she  has  that  irresistible 
simplicity  and  fidelity  of  character,  which  can 
also  pluck  the  sting  from  adversity.  Do  you 
not  see,  you  wan  old  book-keeper  in  faded 
cravat,  that  in  a  poor  man's  house  this  superb 
Aurelia  would  be  more  stately  than  sculpture, 
more  beautiful  than  painting,  and  more  grace 
ful  than  the  famous  vases  ?  Would  her  hus 
band  regret  the  opera  if  she  sang  '  Allan  Percy ' 
to  him  in  the  twilight?  Would  he  not  feel 
richer  than  the  Poets,  when  his  eyes  rose  from 
their  jewelled  pages,  to  fall  again  dazzled  by 
the  splendor  of  his  wife's  beauty  ?  " 

At  this  point  in  my  reflections  I  sometimes 
run,  rather  violently,  against  a  lamp-post,  and 
then  proceed  along  the  street  more  sedately. 

It  is  yet  early  when  I  reach  home,  where  my 
Prue  awaits  me.  The  children  are  asleep,  and 
the  trousers  mended.  The  admirable  woman 
is  patient  of  my  idiosyncrasies,  and  asks  me  if 
I  have  had  a  pleasant  walk,  and  if  there  were 
many  fine  dinners  to-day,  as  if  I  had  been 


DINNER-TIME.  25 

expected  at  a  dozen  tables.  She  even  asks  me 
if  I  have  seen  the  beautiful  Aurelia  (for  there 
is  always  some  Aurelia),  and  inquires  what 
dress  she  wore.  I  respond,  and  dilate  upon 
what  I  have  seen.  Prue  listens,  as  the  children 
listen  to  her  fairy  tales.  We  discuss  the  little 
stories  that  penetrate  our  retirement,  of  the 
great  people  who  actually  dine  out.  Prue, 
with  fine  womanly  instinct,  declares  it  is  a 
shame  that  Aurelia  should  smile  for  a  moment 

upon  ,  yes,  even  upon  you,  my  friend  of 

the  irreproachable  manners ! 

"I  know  him,"  says  my  simple  Prue;  "I 
have  watched  his  cold  courtesy,  his  insincere 
devotion.  I  have  seen  him  acting  in  the  boxes 
at  the  opera,  much  more  adroitly  than  the 
singers  upon  the  stage.  I  have  read  his  deter 
mination  to  marry  Aurelia;  and  I  shall  not  be 
surprised,"  concludes  my  tender  wife,  sadly, 
"  if  he  wins  her  at  last,  by  tiring  her  out,  or, 
by  secluding  her  by  his  constant  devotion  from 
the  homage  of  other  men,  convinces  her  that 
she  had  better  marry  him,  since  it  is  so  dismal 
to  live  on  unmarried." 

And  so,  my  friend,  at  the  moment  when  the 
bouquet  you  ordered  is  arriving  at  Aurelia' s 
house,  and  she  is  sitting  before  the  glass  while 


26  PRUE   AND   I. 

her  maid  arranges  the  last  flower  in  her  hair, 
my  darling  Prue,  whom  you  will  never  hear 
of,  is  shedding  warm  tears  over  your  probable 
union,  and  I  am  sitting  by,  adjusting  my  cravat 
and  incontinently  clearing  my  throat. 

It  is  rather  a  ridiculous  business,  I  allow ; 
yet  you  will  smile  at  it  tenderly,  rather  than 
scornfully,  if  you  remember  that  it  shows  how 
closely  linked  we  human  creatures  are,  without 
knowing  it,  and  that  more  hearts  than  we 
dream  of  enjoy  our  happiness  and  share  our 
sorrow. 

Thus,  I  dine  at  great  tables  uninvited,  and, 
unknown,  converse  with  the  famous  beauties. 
If  Aurelia  is  at  last  engaged  (but  who  is 
worthy  ?),  she  will,  with  even  greater  care, 
arrange  that  wondrous  toilette,  will  teach  that 
lace  a  fall  more  alluring,  those  gems  a  sweeter 
light.  But  even  then,  as  she  rolls  to  dinner  in 
her  carriage,  glad  that  she  is  fair,  not  for  her 
own  sake  nor  for  the  world's,  but  for  that  of  a 
single  youth  (who,  I  hope,  has  not  been  smok 
ing  at  the  club  all  the  morning),  I,  sauntering 
upon  the  sidewalk,  see  her  pass,  I  pay  homage 
to  her  beauty,  and  her  lover  can  do  no  more ; 
and  if,  perchance,  my  garments  —  which  must 
seem  quaint  to  her,  with  their  shining  knees 


DINNER-TIME.  27 

and  carefully  brushed  elbows ;  my  white  cravat, 
careless,  yet  prim;  my  meditative  movement, 
as  I  put  my  stick  under  my  arm  to  pare  an 
apple,  and  not,  I  hope,  this  time  to  fall  into 
the  street,  —  should  remind  her,  in  her  spring 
of  youth,  and  beauty,  and  love,  that  there  are 
age  and  care,  and  poverty,  also ;  then,  perhaps, 
the  good  fortune  of  the  meeting  is  not  wholly 
mine. 

For,  0  beautiful  Aurelia,  two  of  these  things, 
at  least,  must  come  even  to  you.  There  will 
be  a  time  when  you  will  no  longer  go  out  to 
dinner,  or  only  very  quietly,  in  the  family.  I 
shall  be  gone  then :  but  other  old  book-keepers 
in  white  cravats'  will  inherit  my  tastes,  and 
saunter,  on  summer  afternoons,  to  see  what  I 
loved  to  see. 

They  will  not  pause,  I  fear,  in  buying  apples, 
to  look  at  the  old  lady  in  venerable  cap,  who 
is  rolling  by  in  the  carriage.  They  will  wor 
ship  another  Aurelia.  You  will  not  wear  dia 
monds  or  opals  any  more,  only  one  pearl  upon 
your  blue-veined  finger  —  your  engagement  ring. 
Grave  clergymen  and  antiquated  beaux  will 
hand  you  down  to  dinner,  and  the  group  of  pol 
ished  youth,  who  gather  around  the  yet  unborn 
Aurelia  of  that  day,  will  look  at  you,  sitting 


28  PKUE  AND   I. 

quietly  upon  the  sofa,  and  say  softly,  "  She  must 
have  been  very  handsome  in  her  time." 

All  this  must  be :  for  consider  how  few  years 
since  it  was  your  grandmother  who  was  the 
belle,  by  whose  side  the  handsome  young  men 
longed  to  sit  and  pass  expressive  mottoes. 
Your  grandmother  was  the  Aurelia  of  a  half- 
century  ago,  although  you  cannot  fancy  her 
young.  She  is  indissolubly  associated  in  your 
mind  with  caps  and  dark  dresses.  You  can 
believe  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  or  Nell  Gwyn, 
or  Cleopatra,  to  have  been  young  and  bloom 
ing,  although  they  belong  to  old  and  dead  cen 
turies,  but  not  your  grandmother.  Think  of 
those  who  shall  believe  the  same  of  you  —  you 
who  to-day  are  the  very  flower  of  youth. 

Might  I  plead  with  you,  Aurelia  —  I,  who 
would  be  too  happy  to  receive  one  of  those 
graciously  beaming  bows  that  I  see  you  bestow 
upon  young  men,  in  passing,  —  I  would  ask 
you  to  bear  that  thought  with  you,  always, 
not  to  sadden  your  sunny  smile,  but  to  give 
it  a  more  subtle  grace.  Wear  in  your  summer 
garland  this  little  leaf  of  rue.  It  will  not  be 
the  skull  at  the  feast,  it  will  rather  be  the 
tender  thoughtfulness  in  the  face  of  the  young 
Madonna. 


DINNER-TIME.  29 

For  the  years  pass  like  summer  clouds, 
Aurelia,  and  the  children  of  yesterday  are  the 
wives  and  mothers  of  to-day.  Even  I  do  some 
times  discover  the  mild  eyes  of  my  Prue  fixed 
pensively  upon  my  face,  as  if  searching  for  the 
bloom  which  she  remembers  there  in  the  days, 
long  ago,  when  we  were  young.  She  will  never 
see  it  there  again,  any  more  than  the  flowers 
she  held  in  her  hand,  in  our  old  spring  rambles. 
Yet  the  tear  that  slowly  gathers  as  she  gazes, 
is  not  grief  that  the  bloom  has  faded  from  my 
cheek,  but  the  sweet  consciousness  that  it  can 
never  fade  from  my  heart;  and  as  her  eyes 
fall  upon  her  work  again,  or  the  children  climb 
her  lap  to  hear  the  old  fairy  tales  they  already 
know  by  heart,  my  wife  Prue  is  dearer  to  me 
than  the  sweetheart  of  those  days  long  ago. 


MY  CHATEAUX. 

"  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree." 

Coleridge. 


MY  CHATEAUX. 

"  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree." 

Coleridge. 

I  AM  the  owner  of  great  estates.  Many  of 
them  lie  in  the  West ;  but  the  greater  part  are 
in  Spain.  You  may  see  my  western  posses 
sions  any  evening  at  sunset,  when  their  spires 
and  battlements  flash  against  the  horizon. 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  pardonable  impor 
tance,  as  a  proprietor,  that  they  are  visible,  to 
my  eyes  at  least,  from  any  part  of  the  world 
in  which  I  chance  to  be.  In  my  long  voyage 
around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  India  (the 
only  voyage  I  ever  made,  when  I  was  a  boy 
and  a  supercargo),  if  I  fell  homesick,  or  sank 
into  a  revery  of  all  the  pleasant  homes  I  had 
left  behind,  I  had  but  to  wait  until  sunset,  and 
then  looking  toward  the  west,  I  beheld  my 
clustering  pinnacles  and  towers  brightly  bur 
nished  as  if  to  salute  and  welcome  me. 
D  33 


34  PRUE  AND   I. 

So  in  the  city,  if  I  get  vexed  and  wearied, 
and  cannot  find  my  wonted  solace  in  sallying 
forth  at  dinner-time  to  contemplate  the  gay 
world  of  youth  and  beauty  hurrying  to  the 
congress  of  fashion,  —  or  if  I  observe  that 
years  are  deepening  their  tracks  around  the 
eyes  of  my  wife,  Prue,  I  go  quietly  up  to  the 
housetop,  toward  evening,  and  refresh  myself 
with  a  distant  prospect  of  my  estates.  It  is  as 
dear  to  me  as  that  of  Eton  to  the  poet  Gray ; 
and,  if  I  sometimes  wonder  at  such  moments 
whether  I  shall  find  those  realms  as  fair  as 
they  appear,  I  am  suddenly  reminded  that  the 
night  air  may  be  noxious,  and  descending,  I 
enter  the  little  parlor  where  Prue  sits  stitch 
ing,  and  surprise  that  precious  woman  by  ex 
claiming  with  the  poet's  pensive  enthusiasm ; 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise, 
No  more  ;  —  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Columbus,  also,  had  possessions  in  the  West ; 
and  as  I  read  aloud  the  romantic  story  of  his 
life,  my  voice  quivers  when  I  come  to  the 
point  in  which  it  is  related  that  sweet  odors 
of  the  land  mingled  with  the  sea-air,  as  the 


MY   CHATEAUX.  35 

admiral's  fleet  approached  the  shores;  that 
tropical  birds  flew  out  and  fluttered  around 
the  ships,  glittering  in  the  sun,  gorgeous  prom 
ises  of  the  new  country ;  that  boughs,  perhaps 
with  blossoms  not  all  decayed,  floated  out  to 
welcome  the  strange  wood  from  which  the  craft 
were  hollowed.  Then  I  cannot  restrain  my 
self.  I  think  of  the  gorgeous  visions  I  have 
seen  before  I  have  even  undertaken  the  jour 
ney  to  the  West,  and  I  cry  aloud  to  Prue : 

"What  sun-bright  birds  and  gorgeous  blos 
soms  and  celestial  odors  will  float  out  to  us,  my 
Prue,  as  we  approach  our  western  possessions ! " 

The  placid  Prue  raises  her  eyes  to  mine 
with  a  reproof  so  delicate  that  it  could  not  be 
trusted  to  words ;  and  after  a  moment  she  re 
sumes  her  knitting,  and  I  proceed. 

These  are  my  western  estates,  but  my  finest 
castles  are  in  Spain.  It  is  a  country  famously 
romantic,  and  my  castles  are  all  of  perfect  pro 
portions  and  appropriately  set  in  the  most  pic 
turesque  situations.  I  have  never  been  to  Spain 
myself,  but  I  have  naturally  conversed  much 
with  travellers  to  that  country;  although,  I 
must  allow,  without  deriving  from  them  much 
substantial  information  about  my  property 
there.  The  wisest  of  them  told  me  that  there 


36  PRUE  AND   I. 

were  more  holders  of  real  estate  in  Spain  than 
in  any  other  region  he  had  ever  heard  of,  and 
they  are  all  great  proprietors.  Every  one  of 
them  possesses  a  multitude  of  the  stateliest 
castles.  From  conversation  with  them  you 
easily  gather  that  each  one  considers  his  own 
castles  much  the  largest  and  in  the  loveliest 
positions.  And,  after  I  had  heard  this  said,  I 
verified  it  by  discovering  that  all  my  imme 
diate  neighbors  in  the  city  were  great  Spanish 
proprietors. 

One  day  as  I  raised  my  head  from  entering 
some  long  and  tedious  accounts  in  my  books, 
and  began  to  reflect  that  the  quarter  was  ex 
piring,  and  that  I  must  begin  to  prepare  the 
balance-sheet,  I  observed  my  subordinate,  in 
office  but  not  in  years  (for  poor  old  Titbottom 
will  never  see  sixty  again!),  leaning  on  his 
hand,  and  much  abstracted. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Titbottom  ?  "  asked  I. 

"Perfectly,  but  I  was  just  building  a  castle 
in  Spain,"  said  he. 

I  looked  at  his  rusty  coat,  his  faded  hands, 
his  sad  eye,  and  white  hair,  for  a  moment,  in 
great  surprise,  and  then  inquired  : 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  own  property  there 
too  ?  " 


MY   CHATEAUX.  37 

He  shook  his  head  silently ;  and  still  leaning 
on  his  hand,  and  with  an  expression  in  his  eye 
as  if  he  were  looking  upon  the  most  fertile 
estate  of  Andalusia,  he  went  on  making  his 
plans ;  laying  out  his  gardens,  I  suppose,  build 
ing  terraces  for  the  vines,  determining  a  library 
with  a  southern  exposure,  and  resolving  which 
should  be  the  tapestried  chamber. 

"What  a  singular  whim,"  thought  I,  as  I 
watched  Titbottoin  and  filled  up  a  cheque  for 
four  hundred  dollars,  my  quarterly  salary, 
"  that  a  man  who  owns  castles  in  Spain  should 
be  deputy  book-keeper  at  nine  hundred  dollars 
a  year ! " 

When  I  went  home  I  ate  my  dinner  silently, 
and  afterward  sat  for  a  long  time  upon  the  roof 
of  the  house,  looking  at  my  western  property, 
and  thinking  of  Titbottom. 

It  is  remarkable  that  none  of  the  proprietors 
have  ever  been  to  Spain  to  take  possession  and 
report  to  the  rest  of  us  the  state  of  our  property 
there.  I,  of  course,  cannot  go,  I  am  too  much 
engaged.  So  is  Titbottom.  And  I  find  it  is 
the  case  with  all  the  proprietors.  We  have  so 
much  to  detain  us  at  home  that  we  cannot  get 
away.  But  it  is  always  so  with  rich  men.  Prue 
sighed  once  as  she  sat  at  the  window  and  saw 


38  PRUE   AND  I. 

Bourne,  the  millionnaire,  the  president  of  innu 
merable  companies,  and  manager  and  director 
of  all  the  charitable  societies  in  town,  going  by 
with  wrinkled  brow  and  hurried  step.  I  asked 
her  why  she  sighed. 

"  Because  I  was  remembering  that  my  mother 
used  to  tell  me  not  to  desire  great  riches,  for 
they  occasioned  great  cares,"  said  she. 

"  They  do  indeed,"  answered  I,  with  empha 
sis,  remembering  Titbottom,  and  the  impossi 
bility  of  looking  after  my  Spanish  estates. 

Prue  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  mild  sur 
prise  ;  but  I  saw  that  her  mind  had  gone  down 
the  street  with  Bourne.  I  could  never  discover 
if  he  held  much  Spanish  stock.  But  I  think 
he  does.  All  the  Spanish  proprietors  have  a 
certain  expression.  Bourne  has  it  to  a  remark 
able  degree.  It  is  a  kind  of  look,  as  if,  in  fact, 
a  man's  mind  were  in  Spain.  Bourne  was  an 
old  lover  of  Prue's,  and  he  is  not  married, 
which  is  strange  for  a  man  in  his  position. 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know  so 
much,  as  I  certainly  do,  about  my  castles  in 
Spain.  The  sun  always  shines  upon  them. 
They  stand  lofty  and  fair  in  a  luminous,  golden 
atmosphere,  a  little  hazy  and  dreamy,  perhaps, 
like  the  Indian  summer,  but  in  which  no  gales 


MY  CHATEAUX.  39 

blow  and  there  are  no  tempests.  All  the  sub 
lime  mountains,  and  beautiful  valleys,  and  soft 
landscape,  that  I  have  not  yet  seen,  are  to  be 
found  in  the  grounds.  They  command  a  noble 
view  of  the  Alps ;  so  fine,  indeed,  that  I  should 
be  quite  content  with  the  prospect  of  them 
from  the  highest  tower  of  my  castle,  and  not 
care  to  go  to  Switzerland. 

The  neighboring  ruins,  too,  are  as  pictu 
resque  as  those  of  Italy,  and  my  desire  of  stand 
ing  in  the  Coliseum,  and  of  seeing  the  shattered 
arches  of  the  Aqueducts  stretching  along  the 
Campagna  and  melting  into  the  Alban  Mount, 
is  entirely  quenched.  The  rich  gloom  of  my 
orange  groves  is  gilded  by  fruit  as  brilliant  of 
complexion  and  exquisite  of  flavor  as  any  that 
ever  dark-eyed  Sorrento  girls,  looking  over  the 
high  plastered  walls  of  southern  Italy,  hand 
to  the  youthful  travellers,  climbing  on  donkeys 
up  the  narrow  lane  beneath. 

The  Nile  flows  through  my  grounds.  The 
desert  lies  upon  their  edge,  and  Damascus  stands 
in  my  garden.  I  am  given  to  understand,  also, 
that  the  Parthenon  has  been  removed  to  my 
Spanish  possessions.  The  Golden-Horn  is  my 
fish-preserve;  my  flocks  of  golden  fleece  are 
pastured  on  the  plain  of  Marathon,  and  the 


40  PBUE  AND   I. 

honey  of  Hyinettus  is  distilled  from  the  flowers 
that  grow  in  the  vale  of  Enna  —  all  in  my 
Spanish  domains. 

From  the  windows  of  those  castles  look  the 
beautiful  women  whom  I  have  never  seen, 
whose  portraits  the  poets  have  painted.  They 
wait  for  me  there,  and  chiefly  the  fair-haired 
child,  lost  to  my  eyes  so  long  ago,  now  bloomed 
into  an  impossible  beauty.  The  lights  that 
never  shone,  glance  at  evening  in  the  vaulted 
halls,  upon  banquets  that  were  never  spread. 
The  bands  I  have  never  collected,  play  all 
night  long,  and  enchant  the  brilliant  company, 
that  was  never  assembled,  into  silence. 

In  the  long  summer  mornings  the  children 
that  I  never  had,  play  in  the  gardens  that  I 
never  planted.  I  hear  their  sweet  voices 
sounding  low  and  far  away,  calling,  "  Father ! 
father ! "  I  see  the  lost  fair-haired  girl,  grown 
now  into  a  woman,  descending  the  stately  stairs 
of  my  castle  in  Spain,  stepping  out  upon  the 
lawn,  and  playing  with  those  children.  They 
bound  away  together  down  the  garden;  but 
those  voices  linger,  this  time  airily  calling, 
"Mother!  mother!" 

But  there  is  a  stranger  magic  than  this  in  my 
Spanish  estates.  The  lawny  slopes  on  which, 


MY   CHATEAUX.  41 

when  a  child,  I  played,  in  my  father's  old 
country  place,  which  was  sold  when  he  failed, 
are  all  there,  and  not  a  flower  faded,  nor  a 
blade  of  grass  sere.  The  green  leaves  have 
not  fallen  from  the  spring  woods  of  half  a  cen 
tury  ago,  and  a  gorgeous  autumn  has  blazed 
undiinmed  for  fifty  years  among  the  trees  I 
remember. 

Chestnuts  are  not  especially  sweet  to  my 
palate  now,  but  those  with  which  I  used  to 
prick  my  fingers  when  gathering  them  in  New 
Hampshire  woods  are  exquisite  as  ever  to  my 
taste,  when  I  think  of  eating  them  in  Spain. 
I  never  ride  horseback  now  at  home ;  but  in 
Spain,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  bound  over  all  the 
fences  in  the  country,  bare-backed  upon  the 
wildest  horses.  Sermons  I  am  apt  to  find  a 
little  soporific  in  this  country ;  but  in  Spain  I 
should  listen  as  reverently  as  ever,  for  propri 
etors  must  set  a  good  example  on  their  estates. 

Plays  are  insufferable  to  me  here  —  Prue 
and  I  never  go.  Prue,  indeed,  is  not  quite  sure 
it  is  moral;  but  the  theatres  in  my  Spanish 
castles  are  of  a  prodigious  splendor,  and  when 
I  think  of  going  there,  Prue  sits  in  a  front  box 
with  me  —  a  kind  of  royal  box  —  the  good 
woman,  attired  in  such  wise  as  I  have  never 


42  PBUE   AND  I. 

seen  her  here,  while  I  wear  my  white  waist 
coat,  which  in  Spain  has  no  appearance  of 
mending,  but  dazzles  with  immortal  newness, 
and  is  a  miraculous  fit. 

Yes,  and  in  those  castles  in  Spain,  Prue  is 
not  the  placid,  breeches-patching  helpmate, 
with  whom  you  are  acquainted,  but  her  face 
has  a  bloom  which  we  both  remember,  and  her 
movement  a  grace  which  my  Spanish  swans 
emulate,  and  her  voice  a  music  sweeter  than 
those  that  orchestras  discourse.  She  is  al 
ways  there  what  she  seemed  to  me  when  I 
fell  in  love  with  her,  many  and  many  years 
ago.  The  neighbors  called  her  then  a  nice, 
capable  girl;  and  certainly  she  did  knit  and 
darn  with  a  zeal  and  success  to  which  my 
feet  and  my  legs  have  testified  for  nearly  half 
a  century.  But  she  could  spin  a  finer  web 
than  ever  came  from  cotton,  and  in  its  subtle 
meshes  my  heart  was  entangled,  and  there  has 
reposed  softly  and  happily  ever  since.  The 
neighbors  declared  she  could  make  pudding 
and  cake  better  than  any  girl  of  her  age ;  but 
stale  bread  from  Prue's  hand  was  ambrosia 
to  my  palate. 

"  She  who  makes  everything  well,  even  to 
making  neighbors  speak  well  of  her,  will  surely 


MY  CHATEAUX.  43 

make  a  good  wife,"  said  I  to  myself,  when  I 
knew  her ;  and  the  echo  of  a  half  century  an 
swers,  "  a  good  wife." 

So,  when  I  meditate  my  Spanish  castles,  I 
see  Prue  in  them  as  my  heart  saw  her  stand 
ing  by  her  father's  door.  "  Age  cannot  wither 
her."  There  is  a  magic  in  the  Spanish  air 
that  paralyzes  Time.  He  glides  by,  unnoticed 
and  unnoticing.  I  greatly  admire  the  Alps, 
which  I  see  so  distinctly  from  my  Spanish 
windows ;  I  delight  in  the  taste  of  the  south 
ern  fruit  that  ripens  upon  my  terraces;  I  en 
joy  the  pensive  shade  of  the  Italian  ruins  in 
my  gardens;  I  like  to  shoot  crocodiles,  and 
talk  with  the  Sphinx  upon  the  shores  of  the 
Nile,  flowing  through  my  domain ;  I  am  glad 
to  drink  sherbet  in  Damascus,  and  fleece  my 
flocks  on  the  plains  of  Marathon ;  but  I  would 
resign  all  these  forever  rather  than  part  with 
that  Spanish  portrait  of  Prue  for  a  day.  Nay, 
have  I  not  resigned  them  all  forever,  to  live 
with  that  portrait's  changing  original  ? 

I  have  often  wondered  how  I  should  reach 
my  castles.  The  desire  of  going  comes  over 
me  very  strongly  sometimes,  and  I  endeavor  to 
see  how  I  can  arrange  my  affairs,  so  as  to  get 
away.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  quite  sure 


44  PBUE  AND   I. 

of  the  route,  —  I  mean,  to  that  particular  part 
of  Spain  in  which  my  estates  lie.  I  have  in 
quired  very  particularly,  but  nobody  seems  to 
know  precisely.  One  morning  I  met  young 
Aspen,  trembling  with  excitement. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  I  with  inter 
est,  for  I  knew  that  he  held  a  great  deal  of 
Spanish  stock. 

"  Oh ! "  said  he,  "  I'm  going  out  to  take  pos 
session.  I  have  found  the  way  to  my  castles 
in  Spain." 

"  Dear  me ! "  I  answered,  with  the  blood 
streaming  into  my  face ;  and,  heedless  of  Prue, 
pulling  my  glove  until  it  ripped — "what  is 
it?" 

"  The  direct  route  is  through  California,"  an 
swered  he. 

"But  then  you  have  the  sea  to  cross  after 
ward,"  said  I,  remembering  the  map. 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Aspen,  "the  road 
runs  along  the  shore  of  the  Sacramento  Kiver." 

He  darted  away  from  me,  and  I  did  not 
meet  him  again.  I  was  very  curious  to  know 
if  he  arrived  safely  in  Spain,  and  was  expect 
ing  every  day  to  hear  news  from  him  of  my 
property  there,  when,  one  evening,  I  bought  an 
extra,  full  of  California  news,  and  the  first 


MY  CHATEAUX.  45 

thing  upon  which  my  eye  fell  was  this :  "  Died, 
in  San  Francisco,  Edward  Aspen,  Esq.,  aged 
35."  There  is  a  large  body  of  the  Spanish 
stockholders  who  believe  with  Aspen,  and  sail 
for  California  every  week.  I  have  not  yet 
heard  of  their  arrival  out  at  their  castles,  but 
I  suppose  they  are  so  busy  with  their  own  affairs 
there,  that  they  have  no  time  to  write  to  the 
rest  of  us  about  the  condition  of  our  property. 

There  was  my  wife's  cousin,  too,  Jonathan 
Bud,  who  is  a  good,  honest  youth  from  the 
country,  and,  after  a  few  weeks'  absence,  he 
burst  into  the  office  one  day,  just  as  I  was 
balancing  my  books,  and  whispered  to  me, 
eagerly:  — 

"  I've  found  my  castle  in  Spain." 

I  put  the  blotting-paper  in  the  leaf  deliber 
ately,  for  I  was  wiser  now  than  when  Aspen 
had  excited  me,  and  looked  at  my  wife's  cousin, 
Jonathan  Bud,  inquiringly. 

"  Polly  Bacon,"  whispered  he,  winking. 

I  continued  the  interrogative  glance. 

"  She's  going  to  marry  me,  and  she'll  show 
me  the  way  to  Spain,"  said  Jonathan  Bud, 
hilariously. 

"  She'll  make  you  walk  Spanish,  Jonathan 
Bud,"  said  I. 


46  PRUE  AND  I. 

And  so  she  does.  He  makes  no  more  hila 
rious  remarks.  He  never  bursts  into  a  room. 
He  does  not  ask  us  to  dinner.  He  says  that 
Mrs.  Bud  does  not  like  smoking.  Mrs.  Bud 
has  nerves  and  babies.  She  has  a  way  of  say 
ing,  "  Mr.  Bud  ! "  which  destroys  conversation, 
and  casts  a  gloom  upon  society.  * 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Bourne,  the  million- 
naire,  must  have  ascertained  the  safest  and  most 
expeditious  route  to  Spain;  so  I  stole  a  few 
minutes  one  afternoon  and  went  into  his  office. 
He  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  writing  rapidly, 
and  surrounded  by  files  of  papers  and  patterns, 
specimens,  boxes,  everything  that  covers  the 
tables  of  a  great  merchant.  In  the  outer  rooms 
clerks  were  writing.  Upon  high  shelves  over 
their  heads,  were  huge  chests,  covered  with 
dust,  dingy  with  age,  many  of  them,  and  all 
marked  with  the  name  of  the  firm,  in  large 
black  letters  —  "  Bourne  &  Dye."  They  were 
all  numbered  also  with  the  proper  year ;  some 
of  them  with  a  single  capital  B,  and  dates  ex 
tending  back  into  the  last  century,  when  old 
Bourne  made  the  great  fortune,  before  he  went 
into  partnership  with  Dye.  Everything  was 
indicative  of  immense  and  increasing  prosper 
ity. 


MY   CHATEAUX.  47 

There  were  several  gentlemen  in  waiting  to 
converse  with  Bourne  (we  all  call  him  so,  famil 
iarly,  down  town),  and  I  waited  until  they 
went  out.  But  others  came  in.  There  was  no 
pause  in  the  rush.  All  kinds  of  inquiries  were 
made  and  answered.  At  length  I  stepped  up. 

"A  moment,  please,  Mr.  Bourne." 

He  looked  up  hastily,  wished  me  good  morn 
ing,  which  he  had  done  to  none  of  the  others, 
and  which  courtesy  I  attributed  to  Spanish 
sympathy. 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?  "  he  asked,  blandly,  but 
with  wrinkled  brow. 

"  Mr.  Bourne,  have  you  any  castles  in  Spain  ?  " 
said  I,  without  preface. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  moments  without 
speaking,  and  without  seeming  to  see  me.  His 
brow  gradually  smoothed,  and  his  eyes,  appar 
ently  looking  into  the  street,  were  really,  I 
have  no  doubt,  feasting  upon  the  Spanish  land 
scape. 

"Too  many,  too  many,"  said  he  at  length, 
musingly,  shaking  his  head,  and  without  ad 
dressing  me. 

I  suppose  he  felt  himself  too  much  extended 
—  as  we  say  in  Wall  Street.  He  feared,  I 
thought,  that  he  had  too  much  impracticable 


48  PRUE   AND    I. 

property  elsewhere,  to  own  so  much  in  Spain ; 
so  I  asked :  — 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  you  consider  the 
shortest  and  safest  route  thither,  Mr.  Bourne  ? 
for,  of  course,  a  man  who  drives  such  an  im 
mense  trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world,  will 
know  all  that  I  have  come  to  inquire." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  answered  he,  wearily,  "  I  have 
been  trying  all  my  life  to  discover  it ;  but  none 
of  my  ships  have  ever  been  there  —  none  of  my 
captains  have  any  report  to  make.  They  bring 
me,  as  they  brought  my  father,  gold  dust  from 
Guinea ;  ivory,  pearls,  and  precious  stones,  from 
every  part  of  the  earth ;  but  not  a  fruit,  not  a 
solitary  flower,  from  one  of  my  castles  in  Spain. 
I  have  sent  clerks,  agents,  and  travellers  of  all 
kinds,  philosophers,  pleasure-hunters,  and  in 
valids,  in  all  sorts  of  ships,  to  all  sorts  of  places, 
but  none  of  them  ever  saw  or  heard  of  my  cas 
tles,  except  one  young  poet,  and  he  died  in  a 
mad-house." 

"  Mr.  Bourne,  will  you  take  five  thousand  at 
ninety-seven  ?  "  hastily  demanded  a  man,  whom, 
as  he  entered-,  I  recognized  as  a  broker.  "  We'll 
make  a  splendid  thing  of  it." 

Bourne  nodded  assent,  and  the  broker  disap 
peared. 


MY    CHATEAUX.  49 

"Happy  man!"  muttered  the  merchant,  as 
the  broker  went  out;  "he  has  no  castles  in 
Spain." 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr. 
Bourne,"  said  I,  retiring. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  returned  he ;  "  but  I 
assure  you,  had  I  known  the  route  you  hoped 
to  ascertain  from  me,  I  should  have  sailed  years 
and  years  ago.  People  sail  for  the  North-west 
Passage,  which  is  nothing  when  you  have  found 
it.  Why  don't  the  English  Admiralty  fit  out 
expeditions  to  discover  all  our  castles  in  Spain  ?  " 

He  sat  lost  in  thought. 

"  It's  nearly  post-time,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

Mr.  Bourne  did  not  heed  him.  He  was  still 
musing ;  and  I  turned  to  go,  wishing  him  good 
morning.  When  I  had  nearly  reached  the 
door,  he  called  me  back,  saying,  as  if  continu 
ing  his  remarks :  — 

"  It  is  strange  that  you,  of  all  men,  should 
come  to  ask  me  this  question.  If  I  envy  any 
man,  it  is  you,  for  I  sincerely  assure  you  that 
I  supposed  you  lived  altogether  upon  your  Span 
ish  estates.  I  once  thought  I  knew  the  way  to 
mine.  I  gave  directions  for  furnishing  them, 
and  ordered  bridal  bouquets,  which  were  never 
used,  but  I  suppose  they  are  there  still." 


50  PRTJE   AND   I. 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  said  slowly — - 
"  How  is  your  wife  ?  " 

I  told  him  that  Prue  was  well  —  that  she 
was  always  remarkably  well.  Mr.  Bourne 
shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he.     "  Good  morning." 

I  knew  why  he  thanked  me ;  I  knew  why  he 
thought  that  I  lived  altogether  upon  my  Span 
ish  estates ;  I  knew  a  little  bit  about  those 
bridal  bouquets.  Mr.  Bourne,  the  millionnaire, 
was  an  old  lover  of  Prue's.  There  is  something 
very  odd  about  these  Spanish  castles.  When  I 
think  of  them,  I  somehow  see  the  fair-haired 
girl  whom  I  knew  when  I  was  not  out  of  short 
jackets.  When  Bourne  meditates  them,  he  sees 
Prue  and  me  quietly  at  home  in  their  best 
chambers.  It  is  a  very  singular  thing  that  my 
wife  should  live  in  another  man's  castle  in 
Spain. 

At  length  I  resolved  to  ask  Titbottom  if  he 
had  ever  heard  of  the  best  route  to  our  estates. 
He  said  that  he  owned  castles,  and  sometimes 
there  was  an  expression  in  his  face,  as  if  he 
saw  them.  I  hope  he  did.  I  should  long  ago 
have  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  observed  the 
turrets  of  my  possessions  in  the  West,  without 
alluding  to  Spain,  if  I  had  not  feared  he  would 


MY   CHATEAUX.  51 

suppose  I  was  mocking  his  poverty.  I  hope  his 
poverty  has  not  turned  his  head,  for  he  is  very 
forlorn. 

One  Sunday  I  went  with  him  a  few  miles  into 
the  country.  It  was  a  soft,  bright  day,  the  fields 
and  hills  lay  turned  to  the  sky,  as  if  every  leaf 
and  blade  of  grass  were  nerves,  bared  to  the 
touch  of  the  sun.  I  almost  felt  the  ground 
warm  under  my  feet.  The  meadows  waved 
and  glittered,  the  lights  and  shadows  were  ex 
quisite,  and  the  distant  hills  seemed  only  to  re 
move  the  horizon  farther  away.  As  we  strolled 
along,  picking  wild  flowers,  for  it  was  in  sum 
mer,  I  was  thinking  what  a  fine  day  it  was  for 
a  trip  to  Spain,  when  Titbottom  suddenly  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  Thank  God !  I  own  this  landscape." 

"  You  ?  "  returned  I. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he. 

"  Why,"  I  answered,  "  I  thought  this  was 
part  of  Bourne's  property." 

Titbottom  smiled. 

"  Does  Bourne  own  the  sun  and  sky  ?  Does 
Bourne  own  that  sailing  shadow  yonder  ?  Does 
Bourne  own  the  golden  lustre  of  the  grain,  or  the 
motion  of  the  wood,  or  those  ghosts  of  hills,  that 
glide  pallid  along  the  horizon  ?  Bourne  owns 


52  PRUE  AND   I. 

the  dirt  and  fences;  I  own  the  beauty  that 
makes  the  landscape,  or  otherwise  how  could  I 
own  castles  in  Spain  ?  " 

That  was  very  true.  I  respected  Titbottom 
more  than  ever. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause, 
"  that  I  fancy  my  castles  lie  just  beyond  those 
distant  hills.  At  all  events,  I  can  see  them 
distinctly  from  their  summits." 

He  smiled  quietly  as  he  spoke,  and  it  was 
then  I  asked : 

"  But,  Titbottom,  have  you  never  discovered 
the  way  to  them  ?  " 

"  Dear  me !  yes,"  answered  he,  "  I  know  the 
way  well  enough ;  but  it  would  do  no  good  to 
follow  it.  I  should  give  out  before  I  arrived. 
It  is  a  long  and  difficult  journey  for  a  man  of 
my  years  and  habits  —  and  income,"  he  added 
slowly. 

As  he  spoke  he  seated  himself  upon  the 
ground ;  and  while  he  pulled  long  blades  of 
grass,  and,  putting  them  between  his  thumbs, 
whistled  shrilly,  he  said :  — 

"I  have  never  known  but  two  men  who 
reached  their  estates  in  Spain." 

"  Indeed ! "  said  I,  "  how  did  they  go  ?  " 

u  One  went  over  the  side  of  a  ship,  and  the 


MY   CHATEAUX.  53 

other  out  of  a  third-story  window,"  said  Tit- 
bottom,  fitting  a  broad  blade  between  his 
thumbs  and  blowing  a  demoniacal  blast. 

"And  I  know  one  proprietor  who  resides 
upon  his  estates  constantly,"  continued  he. 

"Who  is  that?" 

"Our  old  friend  Slug,  whom  you  may  see 
any  day  at  the  asylum,  just  coming  in  from 
the  hunt,  or  going  to  call  upon  his  friend  the 
Grand  Lama,  or  dressing  for  the  wedding  of 
the  Man  in  the  Moon,  or  receiving  an  ambassa 
dor  from  Timbuctoo.  Whenever  I  go  to  see 
him,  Slug  insists  that  I  am  the  Pope,  disguised 
as  a  journeyman  carpenter,  and  he  entertains 
me  in  the  most  distinguished  manner.  He 
always  insists  upon  kissing  my  foot,  and  I 
bestow  upon  him,  kneeling,  the  apostolic  bene 
diction.  This  is  /the  only  Spanish  proprietor 
in  possession,  with  whom  I  am  acquainted." 

And,  so  saying,  Titbottom  lay  back  upon  the 
ground,  and  making  a  spy-glass  of  his  hand, 
surveyed  the  landscape  through  it.  This  was 
a  marvellous  book-keeper  of  more  than  sixty ! 

"  I  know  another  man  who  lived  in  his  Span 
ish  castle  for  two  months,  and  then  was  tum 
bled  out  head  first.  That  was  young  Stunning 
who  married  old  Buhl's  daughter.  She  was 


54  PRT7E  AND  I. 

all  smiles,  and  mamma  was  all  sugar,  and  Stun 
ning  was  all  bliss,  for  two  months.  He  carried 
his  head  in  the  clouds,  and  felicity  absolutely 
foamed  at  his  eyes.  He  was  drowned  in  love ; 
seeing,  as  usual,  not  what  really  was,  but  what 
he  fancied.  He  lived  so  exclusively  in  his  cas 
tle,  that  he  forgot  the  office  down  town,  and  one 
morning  there  came  a  fall,  and  Stunning  was 
smashed." 

Titbottom  arose,  and  stooping  over,  contem 
plated  the  landscape,  with  his  head  down  be 
tween  his  legs. 

"  It's  quite  a  new  effect,  so,"  said  the  nimble 
book-keeper. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "Stunning  failed?" 

"  Oh  yes,  smashed  all  up,  and  the  castle  in 
Spain  came  down  about  his  ears  with  a  tremen 
dous  crash.  The  family  sugar  was  all  dissolved 
into  the  original  cane  in  a  moment.  Fairy-times 
are  over,  are  they  ?  Heigh-ho !  the  falling  stones 
of  Stunning's  castle  have  left  their  marks  all 
over  his  face.  I  call  them  his  Spanish  scars." 

"  But,  my  dear  Titbottom,"  said  I,  "  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  this  morning,  —  your  usual 
sedateness  is  quite  gone  ?  " 

"  It's  only  the  exhilarating  air  of  Spain,"  he 
answered.  "  My  castles  are  so  beautiful  that  I 


MY   CHATEAUX.  55 

can  never  think  of  them,  nor  speak  of  them, 
without  excitement;  when  I  was  younger  I 
desired  to  reach  them  even  more  ardently  than 
now,  because  I  heard  that  the  philosopher's 
stone  was  in  the  vault  of  one  of  them." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  yielding  to  sympathy,  "  and 
I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  fountain 
of  eternal  youth  flows  through  the  garden  of 
one  of  mine.  Do  you  know  whether  there  are 
any  children  upon  your  grounds  ?  " 

"'The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum 
father ! ' "  replied  Titbottom,  solemnly,  and  in  a 
low  voice,  as  he  folded  his  faded  hands  before 
him,  and  stood  erect,  looking  wistfully  over  the 
landscape.  The  light  wind  played  with  his 
thin  white  hair,  and  his  sober,  black  suit  was 
almost  sombre  in  the  sunshine.  The  half- 
bitter  expression,  which  I  had  remarked  upon 
his  face  during  part  of  our  conversation,  had 
passed  away,  and  the  old  sadness  had  returned 
to  his  eye.  He  stood,  in  the  pleasant  morning, 
the  very  image  of  a  great  proprietor  of  castles 
in  Spain. 

"  There  is  wonderful  music  there,"  he  said : 
"  sometimes  I  awake  at  night  and  hear  it.  It 
is  full  of  the  sweetness  of  youth,  and  love,  and 
a  new  world.  I  lie  and  listen,  and  I  seem  to 


56  PBUE  AND  I. 

arrive  at  the  great  gates  of  my  estates.  They 
swing  open  upon  noiseless  hinges,  and  the  tropic 
of  my  dreams  receives  me.  Up  the  broad  steps, 
whose  marble  pavement  mingled  light  and 
shadow  print  with  shifting  mosaic,  beneath  the 
boughs  of  lustrous  oleanders,  and  palms,  and 
trees  of  unimaginable  fragrance,  I  pass  into 
the  vestibule,  warm  with  summer  odors,  and 
into  the  presence-chamber  beyond,  where  my 
wife  awaits  me.  But  castle,  and  wife,  and 
odorous  woods,  and  pictures,  and  statues,  and 
all  the  bright  substance  of  my  household,  seem 
to  reel  and  glimmer  in  the  splendor,  as  the 
music  fails. 

"  But  when  it  swells  again,  I  clasp  the  wife 
to  my  heart,  and  we  move  on  with  a  fair 
society,  beautiful  women,  noble  men,  before 
whom  the  tropical  luxuriance  of  that  world 
bends  and  bows  in  homage ;  and,  through  end 
less  days  and  nights  of  eternal  summer,  the 
stately  revel  of  our  life  proceeds.  Then,  sud 
denly,  the  music  stops.  I  hear  my  watch  tick 
ing  under  the  pillow.  I  see  dimly  the  outline 
of  my  little  upper  room.  Then  I  fall  asleep, 
and  in  the  morning  some  one  of  the  boarders 
at  the  breakfast-table  says :  — 

" '  Did  you  hear  the  serenade  last  night,  Mr. 
Titbottom?'" 


MY   CHATEAUX.  57 

I  doubted  no  longer  that  Titbottom  was  a 
very  extensive  proprietor.  The  truth  is  that 
he  was  so  constantly  engaged  in  planning  and 
arranging  his  castles,  that  he  conversed  very 
little  at  the  office,  and  I  had  misinterpreted  his 
silence.  As  we  walked  homeward,  that  day,  he 
was  more  than  ever  tender  and  gentle.  "We 
must  all  have  something  to  do  in  this  world," 
said  he,  "  and  I,  who  have  so  much  leisure  — 
for  you  know  I  have  no  wife  nor  children  to 
work  for  —  know  not  what  I  should  do,  if  I 
had  not  my  castles  in  Spain  to  look  after." 

When  I  reached  home,  my  darling  Prue  was 
sitting  in  the  small  parlor,  reading.  I  felt  a 
little  guilty  for  having  been  so  long  away,  and 
upon  my  only  holiday,  too.  So  I  began  to  say 
that  Titbottom  invited  me  to  go  to  walk, 
and  that  I  had  no  idea  we  had  gone  so  far, 
and  that 

"  Don't  excuse  yourself,"  said  Prue,  smiling 
as  she  laid  down  her  book;  "I  am  glad  you 
have  enjoyed  yourself.  You  ought  to  go  out 
sometimes,  and  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  run 
about  the  fields,  which  I  am  not  strong  enough 
to  do.  Why  did  you  not  bring  home  Mr.  Tit- 
bottom  to  tea  ?  He  is  so  lonely,  and  looks  so 
sad.  I  am  sure  he  has  very  little  comfort  in 


58  PRtJE  AND   I. 

this  life,"  said  my  thoughtful  Prue,  as  she 
called  Jane  to  set  the  tea-table. 

"  But  he  has  a  good  deal  of  comfort  in  Spain, 
Prue,"  answered  I. 

"When  was  Mr.  Titbottom  in  Spain?"  in 
quired  my  wife. 

"  Why.  he  is  there  more  than  half  the  time," 
I  replied. 

Prue  looked  quietly  at  me  and  smiled.  "I 
see  it  has  done  you  good  to  breathe  the 
country  air,"  said  she.  "Jane,  get  some  of 
.the  blackberry  jam,  and  call  Adoniram  and 
the  children." 

So  we  went  in  to  tea.  We  eat  in  the  back 
parlor,  for  our  little  house  and  limited  means 
do  not  allow  us  to  have  things  upon  the  Span 
ish  scale.  It  is  better  than  a  sermon  to  hear 
my  wife  Prue  talk  to  the  children ;  and  when 
she  speaks  to  me  it  seems  sweeter  than  psalm 
singing;  at  least,  such  as  we  have  in  our 
church.  I  am  very  happy. 

Yet  I  dream  my  dreams,  and  attend  to  my 
castles  in  Spain.  I  have  so  much  property 
there,  that  I  could  not,  in  conscience,  neglect 
it.  All  the  years  of  my  youth,  and  the  hopes 
of  my  manhood,  are  stored  away,  like  precious 
stones,  in  the  vaults ;  and  I  know  that  I  shall 


MY  CHATEAUX.  59 

find  everything  convenient,  elegant,  and  beauti 
ful,  when  I  come  into  possession. 

As  the  years  go  by,  I  am  not  conscious  that 
my  interest  diminishes.  If  I  see  that  age  is 
subtly  sifting  his  snow  in  the  dark  hair  of  my 
Prue,  I  smile,  contented,  for  her  hair,  dark  and 
heavy  as  when  I  first  saw  it,  is  all  carefully 
treasured  in  my  castles  in  Spain.  If  I  feel  her 
arm  more  heavily  leaning  upon  mine,  as  we 
walk  around  the  squares,  I  press  it  closely  to 
my  side,  for  I  know  that  the  easy  grace  of  her 
youth's  motion  will  be  restored  by  the  elixir  of 
that  Spanish  air.  If  her  voice  sometimes  falls 
less  clearly  from  her  lips,  it  is  no  less  sweet  to 
me,  for  the  music  of  her  voice's  prime  fills, 
freshly  as  ever,  those  Spanish  halls.  If  the 
light  I  love  fades  a  little  from  her  eyes,  I  know 
that  the  glances  she  gave  me,  in  our  youth,  are 
the  eternal  sunshine  of  my  castles  in  Spain. 

I  defy  time  and  change.  Each  year  laid 
upon  our  heads  is  a  hand  of  blessing.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  I  shall  find  the  shortest  route  to 
my  possessions  as  soon  as  need  be.  Perhaps, 
when  Adoniram  is  married,  we  shall  all  go  out 
to  one  of  my  castles  to  pass  the  honeymoon. 

Ah !  if  the  true  history  of  Spain  could  be 
written,  what  a  book  were  there!  The  most 


60  PRUE  AND   I. 

purely  romantic  ruin  in  the  world  is  the  Al- 
hambra.  But  of  the  Spanish  castles,  more 
spacious  and  splendid  than  any  possible  Al- 
hambra,  and  forever  unruined,  no  towers  are 
visible,  no  pictures  have  been  painted,  and  only 
a  few  ecstatic  songs  have  been  sung.  The  pleas 
ure-dome  of  Kubla  Khan,  which  Coleridge  saw 
in  Xanadu  (a  province  with  which  I  am  not 
familiar),  and  a  fine  Castle  of  Indolence  be 
longing  to  Thomson,  and  the  Palace  of  art 
which  Tennyson  built  as  a  "lordly  pleasure- 
house  "  for  his  soul,  are  among  the  best  statis 
tical  accounts  of  those  Spanish  estates.  Turner, 
too,  has  done  for  them  much  the  same  service 
that  Owen  Jones  has  done  for  the  Alhambra. 
In  the  vignette  to  Moore's  Epicurean  you  will 
find  represented  one  of  the  most  extensive 
castles  in  Spain;  and  there  are  several  exqui 
site  studies  from  others,  by  the  same  artists, 
published  in  Rogers's  Italy. 

But  I  confess  I  do  not  recognize  any  of  these 
as  mine,  and  that  fact  makes  me  prouder  of 
my  own  castles,  for,  if  there  be  such  boundless 
variety  of  magnificence  in  their  aspect  and 
exterior,  imagine  the  life  that  is  led  there,  a 
life  not  unworthy  such  a  setting. 

If  Adoniram  should  be  married  within  a 


MY   CHATEAUX.  61 

reasonable  time,  and  we  should  make  up  that 
little  family  party  to  go  out,  I  have  considered 
already  what  society  I  should  ask  to  meet  the 
bride.  Jephthah's  daughter  and  the  Chevalier 
Bayard,  I  should  say  —  and  fair  Rosamond  with 
Dean  Swift  —  King  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  would  come  over,  I  think,  from  his  famous 
castle  —  Shakespeare  and  his  friend  the  Mar 
quis  of  Southampton  might  come  in  a  galley 
with  Cleopatra ;  and,  if  any  guest  were  offended 
by  her  presence,  he  should  devote  himself  to  the 
Fair  One  with  Golden  Locks.  Mephistopheles 
is  not  personally  disagreeable,  and  is  exceed 
ingly  well-bred  in  society,  I  am  told;  and  he 
should  come  t£te-drt£te  with  Mrs.  Rawdon  Craw- 
ley.  Spenser  should  escort  his  Faerie  Queene, 
who  would  preside  at  the  tea-table. 

Mr.  Samuel  Weller  I  should  ask  as  Lord  of 
Misrule,  and  Dr.  Johnson  as  the  Abbot  of  Un 
reason.  I  would  suggest  to  Major  Dobbin  to 
accompany  Mrs.  Fry;  Alcibiades  would  bring 
Homer  and  Plato  in  his  purple-sailed  galley ; 
and  I  would  have  Aspasia,  Ninon  de  1'Enclos, 
and  Mrs.  Battle,  to  make  up  a  table  of  whist 
with  Queen  Elizabeth.  I  shall  order  a  seat 
placed  in  the  oratory  for  Lady  Jane  Grey  and 
Joan  of  Arc.  I  shall  invite  General  Washing- 


62  PRUE   AND   I. 

ton  to  bring  some  of  the  choicest  cigars  from 
his  plantation  for  Sir  Walter  Raleigh ;  and 
Chaucer,  Browning,  and  Walter  Savage  Lan- 
dor  should  talk  with  Goethe,  who  is  to  bring 
Tasso  on  one  arm  and  Iphigenia  on  the  other. 

Dante  and  Mr.  Carlyle  would  prefer,  I  sup 
pose,  to  go  down  into  the  dark  vaults  under  the 
castle.  The  Man  in  the  Moon,  the  Old  Harry, 
and  William  of  the  Wisp  would  be  valuable 
additions,  and  the  Laureate  Tennyson  might 
compose  an  official  ode  upon  the  occasion:  or 
I  would  ask  "  They  "  to  say  all  about  it. 

Of  course  there  are  many  other  guests  whose 
names  I  do  not  at  the  moment  recall.  But  I 
should  invite,  first  of  all,  Miles  Coverdale,  who 
knows  everything  about  these  places  and  this 
society,  for  he  was  at  Blithedale,  and  he  has 
described  "  a  select  party  "  which  he  attended 
at  a  castle  in  the  air. 

Prue  has  not  yet  looked  over  the  list.  In 
fact  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  she  knows  my 
intention.  For  I  wish  to  surprise  her,  and  I 
think  it  would  be  generous  to  ask  Bourne  to 
lead  her  out  in  the  bridal  quadrille.  I  think 
that  I  shall  try  the  first  waltz  with  the  girl  I 
sometimes  seem  to  see  in  my  fairest  castle,  but 
whom  I  very  vaguely  remember.  Titbottom 


MY   CHATEAUX.  63 

will  come  with  old  Burton  and  Jaques.  But  I 
have  not  prepared  half  my  invitations.  Do  you 
not  guess  it,  seeing  that  I  did  not  name,  first 
of  all,  Elia,  who  assisted  at  the  "Rejoicings 
upon  the  new  year's  coming  of  age "  ? 

And  yet,  if  Adoniram  should  never  marry  ? 
—  or  if  we  could  not  get  to  Spain  ?  —  or  if  the 
company  would  not  come  ? 

What  then  ?  Shall  I  betray  a  secret  ?  I 
have  already  entertained  this  party  in  my 
humble  little  parlor  at  home;  and  Prue  pre 
sided  as  serenely  as  Semiramis  over  her  court. 
Have  I  not  said  that  I  defy  time,  and  shall 
space  hope  to  daunt  me?  I  keep  books  by 
day,  but  by  night  books  keep  me.  They  leave 
me  to  dreams  and  reveries.  Shall  I  confess 
that  sometimes  when  I  have  been  sitting,  read 
ing  to  my  Prue,  Cymbeline,  perhaps,  or  a 
Canterbury  tale,  I  have  seemed  to  see  clearly 
before  me  the  broad  highway  to  my  castles  in 
Spain;  and  as  she  looked  up  from  her  work, 
and  smiled  in  sympathy,  I  have  even  fancied 
that  I  was  already  there. 


SEA  FROM  SHORE. 

"Come  unto  these  yellow  sands." 

The  Tempest. 

"  Argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly 
bales." 

Tennyson. 


SEA  FROM   SHORE. 

*'  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands." 

The  Tempest. 

"Argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly 
bales." 

Tennyson. 

IN  the  month  of  June,  Prue  and  I  like  to 
walk  upon  the  Battery  toward  sunset,  and 
watch  the  steamers,  crowded  with  passengers, 
bound  for  the  pleasant  places  along  the  coast 
where  people  pass  the  hot  months.  Sea-side 
lodgings  are  not  very  comfortable,  I  am  told ; 
but  who  would  not  be  a  little  pinched  in  his 
chamber,  if  his  windows  looked  upon  the  sea  ? 

In  such  praises  of  the  ocean  do  I  indulge  at 
such  times,  and  so  respectfully  do  I  regard  the 
sailors  who  may  chance  to  pass,  that  Prue  often 
says,  with  her  shrewd  smiles,  that  my  mind  is 
a  kind  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  full  of  abortive 
marine  hopes  and  wishes,  broken-legged  inten 
tions,  blind  regrets,  and  desires,  whose  hands 
67 


68  PRUE   AND   I. 

have  %een  shot  away  in  some  hard  battle  of 
experience,  so  that  they  cannot  grasp  the  re 
sults  towards  which  they  reach. 

She  is  right,  as  usual.  Such  hopes  and 
intentions  do  lie,  ruined  and  hopeless  now, 
strewn  about  the  placid  contentment  of  my 
mental  life,  as  the  old  pensioners  sit  about  the 
grounds  at  Greenwich,  maimed  and  musing  in 
the  quiet  morning  sunshine.  Many  a  one 
among  them  thinks  what  a  Nelson  he  would 
have  been  if  both  his  legs  had  not  been  pre 
maturely  carried  away ;  or  in  what  a  Trafalgar 
of  triumph  he  would  have  ended,  if,  unfor 
tunately,  he  had  not  happened  to  have  been 
blown  blind  by  the  explosion  of  that  unlucky 
magazine. 

So  I  dream,  sometimes,  of  a  straight  scarlet 
collar,  stiff  with  gold  lace,  around  my  neck, 
instead  of  this  limp  white  cravat ;  and  I  have 
even  brandished  my  quill  at  the  office  so  cut 
lass-wise,  that  Titbottom  has  paused  in  his 
additions  and  looked  at  me  as  if  he  doubted 
whether  I  should  come  out  quite  square  in  my 
petty  cash.  Yet  he  understands  it.  Titbottom 
was  born  in  Nantucket. 

That  is  the  secret  of  my  fondness  for  the 
sea;  I  was  born  by  it.  Not  more  surely  do 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  69 

Savoyards  pine  for  the  mountains,  or  Cockneys 
for  the  sound  of  Bow  bells,  than  those  who  are 
born  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  ocean  to 
return  to  it  and  renew  their  fealty.  In  dreams 
the  children  of  the  sea  hear  its  voice. 

I  have  read  in  some  book  of  travels  that 
certain  tribes  of  Arabs  have  no  name  for  the 
ocean,  and  that  when  they  came  to  the  shore 
for  the  first  time,  they  asked  with  eager  sad 
ness,  as  if  penetrated  by  the  conviction  of  a 
superior  beauty,  "  What  is  that  desert  of  water 
more  beautiful  than  the  land?"  And  in  the 
translations  of  German  stories  which  Adoniram 
and  the  other  children  read,  and  into  which  I 
occasionally  look  in  the  evening  when  they  are 
gone  to  bed  —  for  I  like  to  know  what  interests 
my  children  —  I  find  that  the  Germans,  who 
do  not  live  near  the  sea,  love  the  fairy  lore  of 
water,  and  tell  the  sweet  stories  of  Undine  and 
Melusina,  as  if  they  had  especial  charm  for 
them,  because  their  country  is  inland. 

We  who  know  the  sea  have  less  fairy  feel 
ing  about  it,  but  our  realities  are  romance. 
My  earliest  remembrances  are  of  a  long  range 
of  old,  half-dilapidated  stores ;  red  brick  stores 
with  steep  wooden  roofs,  and  stone  window- 
frames  and  door-frames,  which  stood  upon 


70  PRUE  AND  I. 

docks  built  as  if  for  immense  trade  with  all 
quarters  of  the  globe. 

Generally  there  were  only  a  few  sloops 
moored  to  the  tremendous  posts,  which  I 
fancied  could  easily  hold  fast  a  Spanish  Ar 
mada  in  a  tropical  hurricane.  But  sometimes 
a  great  ship,  an  East  Indiaman,  with  rusty, 
seamed,  blistered  sides,  and  dingy  sails,  came 
slowly  moving  up  the  harbor,  with  an  air  of 
indolent  self-importance  and  consciousness  of 
superiority,  which  inspired  me  with  profound 
respect.  If  the  ship  had  ever  chanced  to  run 
down  a  row-boat,  or  a  sloop,  or  any  specimen 
of  smaller  craft,  I  should  only  have  wondered 
at  the  temerity  of  any  floating  thing  in  cross 
ing  the  path  of  such  supreme  majesty.  The 
ship  was  leisurely  chained  and  cabled  to  the 
old  dock,  and  then  came  the  disembowelling. 

How  the  stately  monster  had  been  fattening 
upon  foreign  spoils!  How  it  had  gorged  it 
self  (such  galleons  did  never  seem  to  me  of  the 
feminine  gender)  with  the  luscious  treasures 
of  the  tropics!  It  had  lain  its  lazy  length 
along  the  shores  of  China,  and  sucked  in  whole 
flowery  harvests  of  tea.  The  Brazilian  sun 
flashed  through  the  strong  wicker  prisons, 
bursting  with  bananas  and  nectarean  fruits 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  71 

that  eschew  the  temperate  zone.  Steams  of 
camphor,  of  sandal  wood,  arose  from  the  hold. 
Sailors  chanting  cabalistic  strains,  that  had  to 
my  ear  a  shrill  and  monotonous  pathos,  like 
the  uniform  rising  and  falling  of  an  autumn 
wind,  turned  cranks  that  lifted  the  bales,  and 
boxes,  and  crates,  and  swung  them  ashore. 

But  to  my  mind,  the  spell  of  their  singing 
raised  the  fragrant  freight,  and  not  the  crank. 
Madagascar  and  Ceylon  appeared  at  the  mystic 
bidding  of  the  song.  The  placid  sunshine  of 
the  docks  was  perfumed  with  India.  The  uni 
versal  calm  of  southern  seas  poured  from  the 
bosom  of  the  ship  over  the  quiet,  decaying  old 
northern  port. 

Long  after  the  confusion  of  unloading  was 
over,  and  the  ship  lay  as  if  all  voyages  were 
ended,  I  dared  to  creep  timorously  along  the 
edge  of  the  dock,  and  at  great  risk  of  falling 
in  the  black  water  of  its  huge  shadow,  I  placed 
my  hand  upon  the  hot  hulk,  and  so  established 
a  mystic  and  exquisite  connection  with  Pacific 
islands,  with  palm  groves  and  all  the  passion 
ate  beauties  they  embower ;  with  jungles,  Ben 
gal  tigers,  pepper,  and  the  crushed  feet  of 
Chinese  fairies.  I  touched  Asia,  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  and  the  Happy  Islands.  I  would 


72  PRTJE  AND  I. 

not  believe  that  the  heat  I  felt  was  of  OUT 
northern  sun ;  to  my  finer  sympathy  it  burned 
with  equatorial  fervors. 

The  freight  was  piled  in  the  old  stores.  I 
believe  that  many  of  them  remain,  but  they 
have  lost  their  character.  When  I  knew  them, 
not  only  was  I  younger,  but  partial  decay  had 
overtaken  the  town;  at  least  the  bulk  of  its 
India  trade  had  shifted  to  New  York  and  Bos 
ton.  But  the  appliances  remained.  There  was 
no  throng  of  busy  traffickers,  and  after  school, 
in  the  afternoon,  I  strolled  by  and  gazed  into 
the  solemn  interiors. 

Silence  reigned  within,  —  silence,  dimness, 
and  piles  of  foreign  treasure.  Vast  coils  of 
cable,  like  tame  boa-constrictors,  served  as 
seats  for  men  with  large  stomachs,  and  heavy 
watch-seals,  and  nankeen  trousers,  who  sat 
looking  out  of  the  door  toward  the  ships,  with 
little  other  sign  of  life  than  an  occasional  low 
talking,  as  if  in  their  sleep.  Huge  hogsheads 
perspiring  brown  sugar  and  oozing  slow  mo 
lasses,  as  if  nothing  tropical  could  keep  within 
bounds,  but  must  continually  expand,  and  ex 
ude,  and  overflow,  stood  against  the  walls, 
and  had  an  architectural  significance,  for  they 
darkly  reminded  me  of  Egyptian  prints,  and  in 


SEA   FROM  SHORE.  73 

the  duskiness  of  the  low  vaulted  store  seemed 
cyclopean  columns  incomplete.  Strange  fes 
toons  and  heaps  of  bags,  square  piles  of  square 
boxes  cased  in  mats,  bales  of  airy  summer 
stuffs,  which,  even  in  winter,  scoffed  at  cold, 
and  shamed  it  by  audacious  assumption  of 
eternal  sun,  little  specimen  boxes  of  precious 
dyes  that  even  now  shine  through  my  memory, 
like  old  Venetian  schools  unpainted,  —  these 
were  all  there  in  rich  confusion. 

The  stores  had  a  twilight  of  dimness,  the  air 
was  spicy  with  mingled  odors.  I  liked  to  look 
suddenly  in  from  the  glare  of  sunlight  outside, 
and  then  the  cool  sweet  dimness  was  like  the 
palpable  breath  of  the  far-off  island-groves; 
and  if  only  some  parrot  or  macaw  hung  within 
would  flaunt  with  glistening  plumage  in  his 
cage,  and  as  the  gay  hue  flashed  in  a  chance 
sunbeam,  call  in  his  hard,  shrill  voice,  as  if 
thrusting  sharp  sounds  upon  a  glistening  wire 
from  out  that  grateful  gloom,  then  the  enchant 
ment  was  complete,  and  without  moving,  I  was 
circumnavigating  the  globe. 

From  the  old  stores  and  the  docks  slowly 
crumbling,  touched,  I  know  not  why  or  how, 
by  the  pensive  air  of  past  prosperity,  I  rambled 
out  of  town  on  those  well-remembered  after- 


74  PRTJE   AND   I. 

noons,  to  the  fields  that  lay  upon  hillsides  over 
the  harbor,  and  there  sat,  looking  out  to  sea, 
fancying  some  distant  sail  proceeding  to  the 
glorious  ends  of  the  earth,  to  be  my  type  and 
image,  who  would  so  sail,  stately  and  successful, 
to  all  the  glorious  ports  of  the  Future.  Going 
home,  I  returned  by  the  stores,  which  black 
porters  were  closing.  But  I  stood  long  looking 
in,  saturating  my  imagination,  and  as  it  ap 
peared,  my  clothes,  with  the  spicy  suggestion. 
For  when  I  reached  home  my  thrifty  mother  — 
another  Prue  —  came  snuffing  and  smelling 
about  me. 

"Why!  my  son,  (snuff,  snuff,)  where  have 
you  been  ?  (snuff,  snuff).  Has  the  baker  been 
making  (snuff)  ginger-bread  ?  You  smell  as  if 
you'd  been  in  (snuff,  snuff,)  a  bag  of  cinnamon." 

"  I've  only  been  on  the  wharves,  mother." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  haven't  stuck 
up  your  clothes  with  molasses.  Wharves  are 
dirty  places,  and  dangerous.  You  must  take 
care  of  yourself,  my  son.  Keally  this  smell  is 
(snuff,  snuff,)  very  strong." 

But  I  departed  from  the  maternal  presence, 
proud  and  happy.  I  was  aromatic.  I  bore 
about  me  the  true  foreign  air.  Whoever  smelt 
me  smelt  distant  countries.  I  had  nutmeg, 


SEA   FROM   SHOKE.  75 

spices,  cinnamon,  and  cloves,  without  the  jolly 
red  nose.  I  pleased  myself  with  being  the 
representative  of  the  Indies.  I  was  in  good 
odor  with  myself  and  all  the  world. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  surely  Nature 
makes  kindly  provision.  An  imagination  so 
easily  excited  as  mine  could  not  have  escaped 
disappointment  if  it  had  had  ample  opportunity 
and  experience  of  the  lands  it  so  longed  to  see. 
Therefore,  although  I  made  the  India  voyage,  I 
have  never  been  a  traveller,  and  saving  the  little 
time  I  was  ashore  in  India,  I  did  not  lose  the 
sense  of  novelty  and  romance  which  the  first 
sight  of  foreign  lands  inspires. 

That  little  time  was  all  my  foreign  travel. 
I  am  glad  of  it.  I  see  now  that  I  should  never 
have  found  the  country  from  which  the  East 
Indiaman  of  my  early  days  arrived.  The  palm 
groves  do  not  grow  with  which  that  hand  laid 
upon  the  ship  placed  me  in  magic  conception. 
As  for  the  lovely  Indian  maid  whom  the 
palmy  arches  bowered,  she  has  long  since 
clasped  some  native  lover  to  her  bosom,  and, 
ripened  into  mild  maternity,  how  should  I 
know  her  now  ? 

"  You  would  find  her  quite  as  easily  now  as 
then,"  says  my  Prue,  when  I  speak  of  it. 


76  PRUE   AND   I. 

She  is  right  again,  as  usual,  that  precious 
woman;  and  it  is  therefore  I  feel  that  if  the 
chances  of  life  have  moored  me  fast  to  a  book 
keeper's  desk,  they  have  left  all  the  lands  I 
longed  to  see  fairer  and  fresher  in  my  mind 
than  they  could  ever  be  in  my  memory.  Upon 
my  only  voyage  I  used  to  climb  into  the  top 
and  search  the  horizon  for  the  shore.  But  now 
in  a  moment  of  calm  thought  I  see  a  more 
Indian  India  than  ever  mariner  discerned,  and 
do  not  envy  the  youths  who  go  there  and  make 
fortunes,  who  wear  grass-cloth  jackets,  drink 
iced  beer,  and  eat  curry;  whose  minds  fall 
asleep,  and  whose  bodies  have  liver  complaints. 

Unseen  by  me  forever,  nor  ever  regretted, 
shall  wave  the  Egyptian  palms  and  the  Italian 
pines.  Untrodden  by  me,  the  Forum  shall  still 
echo  with  the  footfall  of  imperial  Rome,  and 
the  Parthenon,  unrifled  of  its  marbles,  look, 
perfect,  across  the  Egean  blue. 

My  young  friends  return  from  their  foreign 
tours  elate  with  the  smiles  of  a  nameless  Italian 
or  Parisian  belle.  I  know  not  such  cheap 
delights ;  I  am  a  suitor  of  Vittoria  Colonna ;  I 
walk  with  Tasso  along  the  terraced  garden  of 
the  Villa  d'Este,  and  look  to  see  Beatrice  smil 
ing  down  the  rich  gloom  of  the  cypress  shade. 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  77 

You  stayed  at  the  Hdtel  Europa  in  Venice,  at 
Danielli's,  or  the  Leone  bianco;  I  am  the  guest 
of  Marino  Faliero,  and  I  whisper  to  his  wife  as 
we  climb  the  giant  staircase  in  the  summer 
moonlight :  — 

"  Ah  !  senza  amare 

Andare  sul  mare, 

Col  sposo  del  mare, 

Non  puo  consolare." 

It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  I  did  not  care 
to  dine  with  you  and  Aurelia,  that  I  am  con 
tent  not  to  stand  in  St.  Peter's.  Alas !  if  I  could 
see  the  end  of  it,  it  would  not  be  St.  Peter's.  For 
those  of  us  whom  Nature  means  to  keep  at  home, 
she  provides  entertainment.  One  man  goes  four 
thousand  miles  to  Italy,  and  does  not  see  it,  he 
is  so  short-sighted.  Another  is  so  far-sighted 
that  he  stays  in  his  room  and  sees  more  than 
Italy. 

But  for  this  very  reason,  that  it  washes  the 
shores  of  my  possible  Europe  and  Asia,  the  sea 
draws  me  constantly  to  itself.  Before  I  came 
to  New  York,  while  I  was  still  a  clerk  in  Bos 
ton,  courting  Prue,  and  living  out  of  town,  I 
never  knew  of  a  ship  sailing  for  India  or  even 
for  England  and  France,  but  I  went  up  to  the 
State  House  cupola  or  to  the  observatory  on 


78  PKUE  AND   I. 

some  friend's  house  in  Roxbury,  where  I  could 
not  be  interrupted,  and  there  watched  the 
departure. 

The  sails  hung  ready;  the  ship  lay  in  the 
stream ;  busy  little  boats  and  pufling  steamers 
darted  about  it,  clung  to  its  sides,  paddled  away 
from  it,  or  led  the  way  to  sea,  as  minnows 
might  pilot  a  whale.  The  anchor  was  slowly 
swung  at  the  bow ;  I  could  not  hear  the  sailors' 
song,  but  I  knew  they  were  singing.  I  could 
not  see  the  parting  friends,  but  I  knew  fare 
wells  were  spoken.  I  did  not  share  the  confu 
sion,  although  I  knew  what  bustle  there  was, 
what  hurry,  what  shouting,  what  creaking, 
what  fall  of  ropes  and  iron,  what  sharp  oaths, 
low  laughs,  whispers,  sobs.  But  I  was  cool, 
high,  separate.  To  me  it  was 

"  A  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  sails  were  shaken  out,  and  the  ship  began 
to  move.  It  was  a  fair  breeze,  perhaps,  and 
no  steamer  was  needed  to  tow  her  away. 
She  receded  down  the  bay.  Friends  turned 
back  —  I  could  not  see  them  —  and  waved 
their  hands,  and  wiped  their  eyes,  and  went 
home  to  dinner.  Farther  and  farther  from  the 


SEA    FROM   SHORE.  79 

ships  at  anchor,  the  lessening  vessel  became 
single  and  solitary  upon  the  water.  The  sun 
sank  in  the  west;  but  I  watched  her  still. 
Every  flash  of  her  sails,  as  she  tacked  and 
turned,  thrilled  my  heart. 

Yet  Prue  was  not  on  board.  I  had  never 
seen  one  of  the  passengers  or  the  crew.  I  did 
not  know  the  consignees,  nor  the  name  of  the 
vessel.  I  had  shipped  no  adventure,  nor  risked 
any  insurance,  nor  made  any  bet,  but  my  eyes 
clung  to  her  as  Ariadne's  to  the  fading  sail  of 
Theseus.  The  ship  was  freighted  with  more 
than  appeared  upon  her  papers,  yet  she  was 
not  a  smuggler.  She  bore  all  there  was  of  that 
nameless  lading,  yet  the  next  ship  would  carry 
as  much.  She  was  freighted  with  fancy.  My 
hopes,  and  wishes,  and  vague  desires,  were  all 
on  board.  It  seemed  to  me  a  treasure  not  less 
rich  than  that  which  filled  the  East  Indiaman 
at  the  old  dock  in  my  boyhood. 

When,  at  length,  the  ship  was  a  sparkle  upon 
the  horizon,  I  waved  my  hand  in  last  farewell, 
I  strained  my  eyes  for  a  last  glimpse.  My 
mind  had  gone  to  sea,  and  had  left  noise 
behind.  But  now  I  heard  again  the  multi 
tudinous  murmur  of  the  city,  and  went  down 
rapidly,  and  threaded  the  short,  narrow  streets 


80  PRUE   AND   I. 

to  the  office.  Yet,  believe  it,  every  dream  of 
that  day,  as  I  watched  the  vessel,  was  written 
at  night  to  Prue.  She  knew  my  heart  had  not 
sailed  away. 

Those  days  are  long  past  now,  but  still  I 
walk  upon  the  Battery  and  look  towards  the 
Narrows,  and  know  that  beyond  them,  sepa 
rated  only  by  the  sea,  are  many  of  whom  I 
would  so  gladly  know,  and  so  rarely  hear. 
The  sea  rolls  between  us  like  the  lapse  of 
dusky  ages.  They  trusted  themselves  to  it, 
and  it  bore  them  away  far  and  far,  as  if  into 
the  past.  Last  night  I  read  of  Antony,  but  I 
have  not  heard  from  Christopher  these  many 
months,  and  by  so  much  farther  away  is  he,  so 
much  older  and  more  remote,  than  Antony. 
As  for  William,  he  is  as  vague  as  any  of  the 
shepherd  kings  of  ante-Pharaonic  dynasties. 

It  is  the  sea  that  has  done  it,  it  has  carried 
them  off  and  put  them  away  upon  its  other 
side.  It  is  fortunate  the  sea  did  not  put  them 
upon  its  under  side.  Are  they  hale  and  happy 
still  ?  Is  their  hair  gray,  and  have  they  mus- 
tachios  ?  Or  have  they  taken  to  wigs  and 
crutches  ?  Are  they  popes  or  cardinals  yet  ? 
Do  they  feast  with  Lucrezia  Borgia,  or  preach 
red  republicanism  to  the  Council  of  Ten  ?  Do 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  81 

they  sing  Behold  how  brightly  breaks  the  morning 
with  Masaniello  ?  Do  they  laugh  at  Ulysses, 
and  skip  ashore  to  the  Sirens  ?  Has  Mesrour, 
chief  of  the  Eunuchs,  caught  them  with  Zobeide 
in  the  Caliph's  garden,  or  have  they  made  cheese 
cakes  without  pepper  ?  Friends  of  my  youth, 
where  in  your  wanderings  have  you  tasted  the 
blissful  lotus,  that  you  neither  come  nor  send 
us  tidings  ? 

Across  the  sea,  also,  came  idle  rumors,  as 
false  reports  steal  into  history,  and  defile  fair 
fames.  Was  it  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that 
I  walked  with  my  cousin,  then  recently  a  widow, 
and  talked  with  her  of  the  countries  to  which 
she  meant  to  sail  ?  She  was  young,  and  dark- 
eyed,  and  wore  great  hoops  of  gold,  barbaric 
gold,  in  her  ears.  The  hope  of  Italy,  the 
thought  of  living  there,  had  risen  like  a  dawn 
in  the  darkness  of  her  mind.  I  talked  and  lis 
tened  by  rapid  turns. 

Was  it  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that  she  told 
me  of  her  splendid  plans,  how  palaces  tapestried 
with  gorgeous  paintings  should  be  cheaply  hired, 
and  the  best  of  teachers  lead  her  children  to  the 
completest  and  most  various  knowledge  ;  how, 
—  and  with  her  slender  pittance !  —  she  should 
have  a  box  at  the  opera,  and  a  carriage,  and 


82  PEUE   AND  I. 

liveried  servants,  and,  in  perfect  health  and 
youth,  lead  a  perfect  life  in  a  perfect  climate  ? 

And  now  what  do  I  hear  ?  Why  does  a  tear 
sometimes  drop  so  audibly  upon  my  paper  that 
Titbottom  looks  across  with  a  sort  of  mild  re 
buking  glance  of  inquiry  whether  it  is  kind  to 
let  even  a  single  tear  fall,  when  an  ocean  of 
tears  is  pent  up  in  hearts  that  would  burst  and 
overflow  if  but  one  drop  should  force  its  way 
out  ?  Why  across  the  sea  came  faint,  gusty 
stories,  like  low  voices  in  the  wind,  of  a  clois 
tered  garden  and  sunny  seclusion  —  and  a  life 
of  unknown  and  unexplained  luxury  ?  What 
is  this  picture  of  a  pale  face  showered  with 
streaming  black  hair,  and  large  sad  eyes  look 
ing  upon  lovely  and  noble  children  playing  in 
the  sunshine — and  a  brow  pained  with  thought 
straining  into  their  destiny  ?  Who  is  this  fig 
ure,  a  man  tall  and  comely,  with  melting  eyes 
and  graceful  motion,  who  comes  and  goes  at 
pleasure,  who  is  not  a  husband,  yet  has  the  key 
of  the  cloistered  garden  ? 

I  do  not  know.  They  are  secrets  of  the  sea. 
The  pictures  pass  before  my  mind  suddenly 
and  unawares,  and  I  feel  the  tears  rising  that 
I  would  gladly  repress.  Titbottom  looks  at 
me,  then  stands  by  the  window  of  the  office 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  83 

and  leans  his  brow  against  the  cold  iron  bars, 
and  looks  down  into  the  little  square  paved 
court.  I  take  my  hat  and  steal  out  of  the 
office  for  a  few  minutes,  and  slowly  pace  the 
hurrying  streets.  Meek-eyed  Alice!  magnifi 
cent  Maud!  sweet  baby  Lilian!  why  does  the 
sea  imprison  you  so  far  away,  when  will  you 
return,  where  do  you  linger  ?  The  water  laps 
idly  about  docks,  —  lies  calm,  or  gayly  heaves. 
Why  does  it  bring  me  doubts  and  fears  now, 
that  brought  such  bounty  of  beauty  in  the 
days  long  gone? 

I  remember  that  the  day  when  my  dark- 
haired  cousin,  with  hoops  of  barbaric  gold  in 
her  ears,  sailed  for  Italy  was  quarter-day,  and 
we  balanced  the  books  at  the  office.  It  was 
nearly  noon,  and  in  my  impatience  to  be  away, 
I  had  not  added  my  columns  with  sufficient 
care.  The  inexorable  hand  of  the  office  clock 
pointed  sternly  towards  twelve,  and  the  re 
morseless  pendulum  ticked  solemnly  to  noon. 

To  a  man  whose  pleasures  are  not  many, 
and  rather  small,  the  loss  of  such  an  event  as 
saying  farewell  and  wishing  God-speed  to  a 
friend  going  to  Europe  is  a  great  loss.  It  was 
so  to  me,  especially,  because  there  was  always 
more  to  me,  in  every  departure,  than  the  part- 


84  PRTTE   A3STD   I. 

ing  and  the  farewell.  I  was  gradually  renounc 
ing  this  pleasure,  as  I  saw  small  prospect  of 
ending  before  noon,  when  Titbottom,  after  look 
ing  at  me  a  moment,  came  to  my  side  of  the 
desk,  and  said :  — , 

"  I  should  like  to  finish  that  for  you." 
I  looked  at  him :  poor  Titbottom !  he  had  no 
friends  to  wish  God-speed  upon  any  journey. 
I  quietly  wiped  my  pen,  took  down  my  hat, 
and  went  out.  It  was  in  the  days  of  sail 
packets  and  less  regularity,  when  going  to  Eu 
rope  was  more  of  an  epoch  in  life.  How  gayly 
my  cousin  stood  upon  the  deck  and  detailed  to 
me  her  plan !  How  merrily  the  children  shouted 
and  sang !  How  long  I  held  my  cousin's  little 
hand  in  mine,  and  gazed  into  her  great  eyes, 
remembering  that  they  would  see  and  touch 
the  things  that  were  invisible  to  me  forever, 
but  all  the  more  precious  and  fair !  She  kissed 
me  —  I  was  younger  then  —  there  were  tears, 
I  remember,  and  prayers,  and  promises,  a  wav 
ing  handkerchief,  —  a  fading  sail. 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  saw  another 
parting  of  the  same  kind.  I  was  not  a  princi 
pal,  only  a  spectator;  but  so  fond  am  I  of 
sharing,  afar  off,  as  it  were,  and  unseen,  the 
sympathies  of  human  beings,  that  I  cannot 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  85 

avoid  often  going  to  the  dock  upon  steamer- 
days  and  giving  myself  to  that  pleasant  and 
melancholy  observation.  There  is  always  a 
crowd,  but  this  day  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  advance  through  the  masses  of  people. 
The  eager  faces  hurried  by ;  a  constant  stream 
poured  up  the  gangway  into  the  steamer,  and 
the  upper  deck,  to  which  I  gradually  made  my 
way,  was  crowded  with  the  passengers  and  their 
friends. 

There  was  one  group  upon  which  my  eyes 
first  fell,  and  upon  which  my  memory  lingers. 
A  glance,  brilliant  as  daybreak  —  a  voice, 

"  Her  voice's  music,  —  call  it  the  well's  bubbling,  the 
bird's  warble," 

a  goddess  girdled  with  flowers,  and  smiling 
farewell  upon  a  circle  of  worshippers,  to  each 
one  of  whom  that  gracious  calmness  made  the 
smile  sweeter,  and  the  farewell  more  sad  — 
other  figures,  other  flowers,  an  angel  face  —  all 
these  I  saw  in  that  group  as  I  was  swayed  up 
and  down  the  deck  by  the  eager  swarm  of 
people.  The  hour  came,  and  I  went  on  shore 
with  the  rest.  The  plank  was  drawn  away  — 
the  captain  raised  his  hand  —  the  huge  steamer 


86  PRTJE   AND   I. 

slowly  moved  —  a  cannon  was  fired  —  the  ship 
was  gone. 

The  sun  sparkled  upon  the  water  as  they 
sailed  away.  In  five  minutes  the  steamer  was 
as  much  separated  from  the  shore  as  if  it  had 
been  at  sea  a  thousand  years. 

I  leaned  against  a  post  upon  the  dock  and 
looked  around.  Ranged  upon  the  edge  of  the 
wharf  stood  that  band  of  worshippers,  waving 
handkerchiefs  and  straining  their  eyes  to  see 
the  last  smile  of  farewell  —  did  any  eager  self 
ish  eye  hope  to  see  a  tear  ?  They  to  whom  the 
handkerchiefs  were  waved  stood  high  upon 
the  stern,  holding  flowers.  Over  them  hung 
the  great  flag,  raised  by  the  gentle  wind  into 
the  graceful  folds  of  a  canopy,  —  say  rather  a 
gorgeous  gonfalon  waved  over  the  triumphant 
departure,  over  that  supreme  youth,  and  bloom, 
and  beauty,  going  out  across  the  mystic  ocean 
to  carry  a  finer  charm  and  more  human  splendor 
into  those  realms  of  my  imagination  beyond  the 
sea. 

"  You  will  return,  0  youth  and  beauty ! " 
I  said  to  my  dreaming  and  foolish  self,  as  I 
contemplated  those  fair  figures,  "richer  than 
Alexander  with  Indian  spoils.  All  that  his 
toric  association,  that  copious  civilization,  those 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  87 

grandeurs  and  graces  of  art,  that  variety  and 
picturesquenes  of  life,  will  mellow  and  deepen 
your  experience  even  as  time  silently  touches 
those  old  pictures  into  a  more  persuasive  and 
pathetic  beauty,  and  as  this  increasing  summer 
sheds  ever  softer  lustre  upon  the  landscape. 
You  will  return  conquerors  and  not  conquered. 
You  will  bring  Europe,  even  as  Aurelian 
brought  Zenobia  captive,  to  deck  your  home 
ward  triumph.  I  do  not  wonder  that  these 
clouds  break  away,  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
sun  presses  out  and  floods  all  the  air,  and 
land,  and  water,  with  light  that  graces  with 
happy  omens  your  stately  farewell." 

But  if  my  faded  face  looked  after  them  with 
such  earnest  and  longing  emotion,  —  I,  a  soli 
tary  old  man,  unknown  to  those  fair  beings, 
and  standing  apart  from  that  band  of  lovers, 
yet  in  that  moment  bound  more  closely  to 
them  than  they  knew,  —  how  was  it  with  those 
whose  hearts  sailed  away  with  that  youth  and 
beauty  ?  I  watched  them  closely  from  behind 
my  post.  I  knew  that  life  had  paused  with 
them ;  that  the  world  stood  still.  I  knew  that 
the  long,  long  summer  would  be  only  a  yearn 
ing  regret.  I  knew  that  each  asked  himself 
the  mournful  question,  "  Is  this  parting  typi- 


88  PRUE   AND  I. 

cal  —  this  slow,  sad,  sweet  recession  ?  "  And 
I  knew  that  they  did  not  care  to  ask  whether 
they  should  meet  again,  nor  dare  to  contem 
plate  the  chances  of  the  sea. 

The  steamer  swept  on,  she  was  near  Staten 
Island,  and  a  final  gun  boomed  far  and  low 
across  the  water.  The  crowd  was  dispersing, 
but  the  little  group  remained.  Was  it  not  all 
Hood  had  sung  ? 

"  I  saw  thee,  lovely  Inez, 
Descend  along  the  shore 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 
And  banners  waved  before  ; 
And  gentle  youths  and  maidens  gay, 
And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ;  — 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 
If  it  had  been  no  more  1  " 

"  0  youth ! "  I  said  to  them  without  speak 
ing,  "be  it  gently  said,  as  it  is  solemnly 
thought,  should  they  return  no  more,  yet  in 
your  memories  the  high  hour  of  their  loveli 
ness  is  forever  enshrined.  Should  they  come 
no  more  they  never  will  be  old,  nor  changed,  to 
you.  You  will  wax  and  wane,  you  will  suffer, 
and  struggle,  and  grow  old;  but  this  summer 
vision  will  smile,  immortal,  upon  your  lives, 


SEA   FBOM   SHORE.  89 

and  those  fair  faces  shall  shed,  forever,  from 
under  that  slowly  waving  flag,  hope  and 
peace." 

It  is  so  elsewhere;  it  is  the  tenderness  of 
Nature.  Long,  long  ago  we  lost  our  first-born, 
Prue  and  I.  Since  then,  we  have  grown  older 
and  our  children  with  us.  Change  conies,  and 
grief,  perhaps,  and  decay.  We  are  happy,  our 
children  are  obedient  and  gay.  But  should 
Prue  live  until  she  has  lost  us  all,  and  laid  us, 
gray  and  weary,  in  our  graves,  she  will  have 
always  one  babe  in  her  heart.  Every  mother 
who  has  lost  an  infant,  has  gained  a  child  of 
immortal  youth.  Can  you  find  comfort  here, 
lovers,  whose  mistress  has  sailed  away  ? 

I  did  not  ask  the  question  aloud,  I  thought 
it  only,  as  I  watched  the  youths,  and  turned 
away  while  they  still  stood  gazing.  One,  I 
observed,  climbed  a  post  and  waved  his  black 
hat  before  the  whitewashed  side  of  the  shed 
over  the  dock,  whence  I  supposed  he  would 
tumble  into  the  water.  Another  had  tied  a 
handkerchief  to  the  end  of  a  somewhat  baggy 
umbrella,  and,  in  the  eagerness  of  gazing,  had 
forgotten  to  wave  it,  so  that  it  hung  mourn 
fully  down,  as  if  overpowered  with  grief  it 
could  not  express.  The  entranced  youth  still 


90  PBUB   AND   I. 

held  the  umbrella  aloft.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  he  had  struck  his  flag ;  or  as  if  one  of  my 
cravats  were  airing  in  that  sunlight.  A  negro 
carter  was  joking  with  an  apple- woman  at  the 
entrance  of  the  dock.  The  steamer  was  out  of 
sight. 

I  found  that  I  was  belated  and  hurried  back 
to  my  desk.  Alas!  poor  lovers;  I  wonder  if 
they  are  watching  still  ?  Has  he  fallen  ex 
hausted  from  the  post  into  the  water  ?  Is 
that  handkerchief,  bleached  and  rent,  still 
pendent  upon  that  somewhat  baggy  umbrella  ? 

"  Youth  and  beauty  went  to  Europe  to-day," 
said  I  to  Prue,  as  I  stirred  my  tea  at  evening. 

As  I  spoke,  our  youngest  daughter  brought 
me  the  sugar.  She  is  just  eighteen,  and  her 
name  should  be  Hebe.  I  took  a  lump  of  sugar 
and  looked  at  her.  She  had  never  seemed  so 
lovely,  and  as  I  dropped  the  lump  in  my  cup, 
I  kissed  her.  I  glanced  at  Prue  as  I  did  so. 
The  dear  woman  smiled,  but  did  not  answer 
my  exclamation. 

Thus,  without  travelling,  I  travel,  and  share 
the  emotions  of  those  I  do  not  know.  But 
sometimes  the  old  longing  comes  over  me  as  in 
the  days  when  I  timidly  touched  the  huge 
East  Indiaman,  and  magnetically  sailed  around 
the  world. 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  91 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  the  lovers  and  I 
waved  farewell  to  the  steamer,  and  while  the 
lovely  figures  standing  under  the  great  gonfalon 
were  as  vivid  in  my  mind  as  ever,  that  a  day  of 
premature  sunny  sadness,  like  those  of  the 
Indian  summer,  drew  me  away  from  the  office 
early  in  the  afternoon :  for  fortunately  it  is  our 
dull  season  now,  and  even  Titbottom  sometimes 
leaves  the  office  by  five  o'clock.  Although  why 
he  should  leave  it,  or  where  he  goes,  or  what  he 
does,  I  do  not  well  know.  Before  I  knew  him, 
I  used  sometimes  to  meet  him  with  a  man  whom 
I  was  afterwards  told  was  Bartleby,  the  scriv 
ener.  Even  then  it  seemed  to  me  that  they 
rather  clubbed  their  loneliness  than  made  soci 
ety  for  each  other.  Recently  I  have  not  seen 
Bartleby ;  but  Titbottom  seems  no  more  solitary 
because  he  is  alone. 

I  strolled  into  the  Battery  as  I  sauntered 
about.  Staten  Island  looked  so  alluring,  tender- 
hued  with  summer  and  melting  in  the  haze,  that 
I  resolved  to  indulge  myself  in  a  pleasure-trip. 
It  was  a  little  selfish,  perhaps,  to  go  alone,  but 
I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  saw  that  if  I  should 
hurry  home  for  Prue  the  trip  would  be  lost ; 
then  I  should  be  disappointed,  and  she  would 
be  grieved. 


92  PEUE  AND   I. 

Ought  I  not  rather  (I  like  to  begin  questions, 
which  I  am  going  to  answer  affirmatively,  with 
ought)  to  take  the  trip  and  recount  my  adven 
tures  to  Prue  upon  my  return,  whereby  I  should 
actually  enjoy  the  excursion  and  the  pleasure 
of  telling  her ;  while  she  would  enjoy  my  story 
and  be  glad  that  I  was  pleased  ?  Ought  I  wil 
fully  to  deprive  us  both  of  this  various  enjoy 
ment  by  aiming  at  a  higher,  which,  in  losing,  we 
should  lose  all  ? 

Unfortunately,  just  as  I  was  triumphantly 
answering  "  Certainly  not !  "  another  question 
marched  into  my  mind,  escorted  by  a  very 
defiant  ought. 

"Ought  I  to  go  when  I  have  such  a  debate 
about  it  ?  " 

But  while  I  was  perplexed,  and  scoffing  at 
my  own  scruples,  the  ferry-bell  suddenly  rang, 
and  answered  all  my  questions.  Involuntarily 
I  hurried  on  board.  The  boat  slipped  from  the 
dock.  I  went  up  on  deck  to  enjoy  the  view  of 
the  city  from  the  bay,  but  just  as  I  sat  down, 
and  meant  to  have  said  "  How  beautiful ! "  I 
found  myself  asking :  — 

u  Ought  I  to  have  come  ?  " 

Lost  in  perplexing  debate,  I  saw  little  of  the 
scenery  of  the  bay ;  but  the  remembrance  of 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  93 

Prue  and  the  gentle  influence  of  the  day  plunged 
me  into  a  mood  of  pensive  revery  which  noth 
ing  tended  to  destroy,  until  we  suddenly  arrived 
at  the  landing. 

As  I  was  stepping  ashore,  I  was  greeted  by 
Mr.  Bourne,  who  passes  the  summer  on  the 
island,  and  who  hospitably  asked  if  I  were 
going  his  way.  His  way  was  toward  the 
southern  end  of  the  island,  and  I  said  yes. 
His  pockets  were  full  of  papers  and  his  brow 
of  wrinkles ;  so,  when  we  reached  the  point 
where  he  should  turn  off,  I  asked  him  to  let  me 
alight,  although  he  was  very  anxious  to  carry 
me  wherever  I  was  going. 

"  I  am  only  strolling  about,"  I  answered,  as 
I  clambered  carefully  out  of  the  wagon. 

"  Strolling  about  ?  "  asked  he,  in  a  bewil 
dered  manner ;  "  do  people  stroll  about,  nowa 
days  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,"  I  answered,  smiling,  as  I 
pulled  my  trousers  down  over  my  boots,  for 
they  had  dragged  up,  as  I  stepped  out  of  the 
wagon,  "and  besides,  what  can  an  old  book 
keeper  do  better  in  the  dull  season  than  stroll 
about  this  pleasant  island,  and  watch  the  ships 
at  sea  ?  " 

Bourne  looked  at  me  with  his  weary  eyes. 


94  PRUE   AND   I. 

"I'd  give  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  for 
a  dull  season,"  said  he,  "  but  as  for  strolling, 
I've  forgotten  how." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  wandered  dreamily 
across  the  fields  and  woods,  and  were  fastened 
upon  the  distant  sails. 

"  It  is  pleasant,"  he  said  musingly,  and  fell 
into  silence.  But  I  had  no  time  to  spare,  so  I 
wished  him  good  afternoon. 

"  I  hope  your  wife  is  well,"  said  Bourne  to 
me,  as  I  turned  away.  Poor  Bourne !  He 
drove  on  alone  in  his  wagon. 

But  I  made  haste  to  the  most  solitary  point 
upon  the  southern  shore,  and  there  sat,  glad  to 
be  so  near  the  sea.  There  was  that  warm,  sym 
pathetic  silence  in  the  air,  that  gives  to  Indian- 
summer  days  almost  a  human  tenderness  of 
feeling.  A  delicate  haze,  that  seemed  only  the 
kindly  air  made  visible,  hung  over  the  sea. 
The  water  lapped  languidly  among  the  rocks, 
and  the  voices  of  children  in  a  boat  beyond 
rang  musically,  and  gradually  receded,  until 
they  were  lost  in  the  distance. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  was  aware  of  the 
outline  of  a  large  ship,  drawn  vaguely  upon  the 
mist,  which  I  supposed,  at  first,  to  be  only  a 
kind  of  mirage.  But  the  more  steadfastly  1 


And  there  sat,  glad  to  be  so  near  the  sea. 


94 

ulars  a  year  for 
is  for  strolling, 

s   wandered  dreamily 
:.•*,  and  were  fastened 

!y,  and  fell 
;ue  to  spare,  so  I 

:id  Bourne  to 
Bourne!      He 

!itary  point 

sat,  glad  to 

warm,  sym- 

Indian- 

•:u  tenderness  of 

\ze,  that  seemed  only  the 

hung  over  the  sea. 

I  languidly  among  the  rocks, 

,f  children  in  a  boat  beyond 

rang  musically,  and  gradually  receded,  until 

o  lost  in  the  distance. 

was  some  time  before  I  was  aware  of  the 

ne  of  a  large  ship,  drawn  vaguely  upon  the 

mist,  which  I  supposed,  at  first,  to  be  only  a 

I  of  mirage.     But  the  more  steadfastly  1 

,£sz  Qfii  lean  oa  sd  ot  bfilg  ,tea  siarit  bnA 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  95 

gazed,  the  more  distinct  it  became,  and  I  could 
no  longer  doubt  that  I  saw  a  stately  ship  lying 
at  anchor,  not  more  than  half  a  mile  from  the 
land. 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  place  to  anchor,"  I 
said  to  myself,  "  or  can  she  be  ashore  ?  " 

There  were  no  signs  of  distress ;  the  sails 
were  carefully  clewed  up,  and  there  were  no 
sailors  in  the  tops,  nor  upon  the  shrouds.  A 
flag,  of  which  I  could  not  see  the  device  or  the 
nation,  hung  heavily  at  the  stern,  and  looked 
as  if  it  had  fallen  asleep.  My  curiosity  began 
to  be  singularly  excited.  The  form  of  the  ves 
sel  seemed  not  to  be  permanent ;  but  within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  I  was  sure  that  I  had  seen 
half  a  dozen  different  ships.  As  I  gazed,  I 
saw  no  more  sails  nor  masts,  but  a  long  range 
of  oars,  flashing  like  a  golden  fringe,  or  straight 
and  stiff,  like  the  legs  of  a  sea-monster. 

"  It  is  some  bloated  crab,  or  lobster,  magnified 
by  the  mist,"  I  said  to  myself,  complacently. 

But,  at  the  same  moment,  there  was  a  con 
centrated  flashing  and  blazing  in  one  spot 
among  the  rigging,  and  it  was  as  if  I  saw  a 
beatified  ram,  or,  more  truly,  a  sheepskin, 
splendid  as  the  hair  of  Berenice. 

"  Is  that  the  golden  fleece  ? "   I   thought. 


96  PRTJE   AND   I. 

"But,  surely,  Jason  and  the  Argonauts  have 
gone  home  long  since.  Do  people  go  on  gold- 
fleecing  expeditions  now  ?  "  I  asked  myself, 
in  perplexity.  "  Can  this  be  a  California 
steamer  ?  " 

How  could  I  have  thought  it  a  steamer  ? 
Did  I  not  see  those  sails,  "  thin  and  sere "  ? 
Did  I  not  feel  the  melancholy  of  that  solitary 
bark  ?  It  had  a  mystic  aura ;  a  boreal 
brilliancy  shimmered  in  its  wake,  for  it  was 
drifting  seaward.  A  strange  fear  curdled 
along  my  veins.  That  summer  sun  shone 
cool.  The  weary,  battered  ship  was  gashed,  as 
if  gnawed  by  ice.  There  was  terror  in  the  air, 
as  a  "  skinny  hand  so  brown "  waved  to  me 
from  the  deck.  I  lay  as  one  bewitched.  The 
hand  of  the  ancient  mariner  seemed  to  be 
reaching  for  me,  like  the  hand  of  death. 

Death  ?  Why,  as  I  was  inly  praying  Prue's 
forgiveness  for  my  solitary  ramble  and  conse 
quent  demise,  a  glance  like  the  fulness  of 
summer  splendor  gushed  over  me;  the  odor 
of  flowers  and  of  eastern  gums  made  all  the 
atmosphere.  I  breathed  the  Orient,  and  lay 
drunk  with  balm,  while  that  strange  ship,  a 
golden  galley  now,  with  glittering  draperies  fes 
tooned  with  flowers,  paced  to  the  measured  beat 


SEA   FROM  SHORE.  97 

of  oars  along  the  calm,  and  Cleopatra  smiled 
alluringly  from  the  great  pageant's  heart. 

Was  this  a  barge  for  summer  waters,  this 
peculiar  ship  I  saw  ?  It  had  a  ruined  dignity, 
a  cumbrous  grandeur,  although  its  masts  were 
shattered  and  its  sails  rent.  It  hung  preter- 
naturally  still  upon  the  sea,  as  if  tormented 
and  exhausted  by  long  driving  and  drifting.  I 
saw  no  sailors,  but  a  great  Spanish  ensign 
floated  over,  and  waved,  a  funereal  plume.  I 
knew  it  then.  The  armada  was  long  since 
scattered;  but,  floating  far 

«'  on  desolate  rainy  seas," 

lost  for  centuries,  and  again  restored  to  sight, 
here  lay  one  of  the  fated  ships  of  Spain.  The 
huge  galleon  seemed  to  fill  all  the  air,  built  up 
against  the  sky,  like  the  gilded  ships  of  Claude 
Lorraine  against  the  sunset. 

But  it  fled,  for  now  a  black  flag  fluttered  at 
the  mast-head  —  a  long  low  vessel  darted 
swiftly  where  the  vast  ship  lay;  there  came 
a  shrill  piping  whistle,  the  clash  of  cutlasses, 
fierce  ringing  oaths,  sharp  pistol  cracks,  the 
thunder  of  command,  and  over  all  the  gusty 
yell  of  a  demoniac  chorus, 

"  My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  I  sailed." 


98  PRUE   AND   I. 

—  There  were  no  clouds  longer,  but  under  a 
serene  sky  I  saw  a  bark  moving  with  festal 
pomp,  thronged  with  grave  senators  in  flowing 
robes,  and  one  with  ducal  bonnet  in  the  midst, 
holding  a  ring.  The  smooth  bark  swam  upon 
a  sea  like  that  of  southern  latitudes.  I  saw 
the  Bucentoro  and  the  nuptials  of  Venice  and 
the  Adriatic. 

Who  were  those  coming  over  the  side  ? 
Who  crowded  the  boats,  and  sprang  into  the 
water,  men  in  old  Spanish  armor,  with  plumes 
and  swords,  and  bearing  a  glittering  cross  ? 
Who  was  he  standing  upon  the  deck  with 
folded  arms  and  gazing  towards  the  shore,  as 
lovers  on  their  mistresses  and  martyrs  upon 
heaven  ?  Over  what  distant  and  tumultuous 
seas  had  this  small  craft  escaped  from  other 
centuries  and  distant  shores  ?  What  sounds 
of  foreign  hymns,  forgotten  now,  were  these, 
and  what  solemnity  of  debarkation  ?  Was 
this  grave  form  Columbus  ? 

Yet  these  were  not  so  Spanish  as  they  seemed 
just  now.  This  group  of  stern-faced  men  with 
high  peaked  hats,  who  knelt  upon  the  cold 
deck  and  looked  out  upon  a  shore  which,  I 
could  see  by  their  joyless  smile  of  satisfaction, 
was  rough,  and  bare,  and  forbidding.  In  that 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  99 

soft  afternoon,  standing  in  mournful  groups 
upon  the  small  deck,  why  did  they  seem  to  me 
to  be  seeing  the  sad  shores  of  wintry  New 
England  ?  That  phantom-ship  could  not  be 
the  May  Flower! 

I  gazed  long  upon  the  shifting  illusion. 

"  If  I  should  board  this  ship,"  I  asked  myself, 
"  where  should  I  go  ?  whom  should  I  meet  ? 
what  should  I  see  ?  Is  not  this  the  vessel 
that  shall  carry  me  to  my  Europe,  my  foreign 
countries,  my  impossible  India,  the  Atlantis 
that  I  have  lost  ?  " 

As  I  sat  staring  at  it  I  could  not  but  wonder 
whether  Bourne  had  seen  this  sail  when  he 
looked  upon  the  water  ?  Does  he  see  such 
sights  every  day,  because  he  lives  down  here  ? 
Is  it  not  perhaps  a  magic  yacht  of  his;  and 
does  he  slip  off  privately  after  business  hours 
to  Venice,  and  Spain,  and  Egypt,  perhaps  to 
El  Dorado  ?  Does  he  run  races  with  Ptolemy, 
Philopater,  and  Hiero  of  Syracuse,  rare  regattas 
on  fabulous  seas  ? 

Why  not  ?  He  is  a  rich  man,  too,  and  why 
should  not  a  New  York  merchant  do  what  a 
Syracuse  tyrant  and  an  Egyptian  prince  did  ? 
Has  Bourne's  yacht  those  sumptuous  chambers, 
like  Philopater's  galley,  of  which  the  greater 


100  PRUB   AND   I. 

part  was  made  of  split  cedar,  and  of  Milesian 
cypress ;  and  has  he  twenty  doors  put  together 
with  beams  of  citron-wood,  with  many  orna 
ments  ?  Has  the  roof  of  his  cabin  a  carved 
golden  face,  and  is  his  sail  linen  with  a  purple 
fringe  ? 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I 
looked  wistfully  at  the  ship,  which  began  to 
glimmer  and  melt  in  the  haze. 

"  It  certainly  is  not  a  fishing  smack  ? "  I 
asked,  doubtfully. 

No,  it  must  be  Bourne's  magic  yacht ;  I  was 
sure  of  it.  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  poor 
old  Hiero,  whose  cabins  were  divided  into 
many  rooms,  with  floors  composed  of  mosaic 
work,  of  all  kinds  of  stones  tessellated.  And, 
on  this  mosaic,  the  whole  story  of  the  Iliad 
was  depicted  in  a  marvellous  manner.  He  had 
gardens  "  of  all  sorts  of  most  wonderful  beauty, 
enriched  with  all  sorts  of  plants,  and  shadowed 
by  roofs  of  lead  or  tiles.  And,  besides  this, 
there  were  tents  roofed  with  boughs  of  white 
ivy  and  of  the  vine  —  the  roots  of  which  de 
rived  their  moisture  from  casks  full  of  earth, 
and  were  watered  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
gardens.  There  were  temples,  also,  with  doors 
of  ivory  and  citron-wood,  furnished  in  the  most 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  101 

exquisite  manner,  with  pictures  and  statues, 
and  with  goblets  and  vases  of  every  form  and 
shape  imaginable." 

"  Poor  Bourne ! "  I  said,  "  I  suppose  his  is 
finer  than  Hiero's,  which  is  a  thousand  years 
old.  Poor  Bourne  !  I  don't  wonder  that  his 
eyes  are  weary,  and  that  he  would  pay  so  dearly 
for  a  day  of  leisure.  Dear  me !  is  it  one  of  the 
prices  that  must  be  paid  for  wealth,  the  keep 
ing  up  a  magic  yacht  ?  " 

Involuntarily,  I  had  asked  the  question 
aloud. 

"  The  magic  yacht  is  not  Bourne's,"  answered 
a  familiar  voice.  I  looked  up,  and  Titbottom 
stood  by  my  side.  "  Do  you  not  know  that  all 
Bourne's  money  would  not  buy  the  yacht  ?  " 
asked  he.  "  He  cannot  even  see  it.  And  if  he 
could,  it  would  be  no  magic  yacht  to  him,  but 
only  a  battered  and  solitary  hulk." 

The  haze  blew  gently  away,  as  Titbottom 
spoke,  and  there  lay  my  Spanish  galleon,  my 
Bucentoro,  my  Cleopatra's  galley,  Columbus's 
Santa  Maria,  and  the  Pilgrims'  May  Flower, 
an  old  bleaching  wreck  upon  the  beach. 

"  Do  you  suppose  any  true  love  is  in  vain  ?  " 
asked  Titbottom,  solemnly,  as  he  stood  bare 
headed,  and  the  soft  sunset  wind  played  with 


102  PKUE   AND   I. 

his  few  hairs.  "Could  Cleopatra  smile  upon 
Antony,  and  the  moon  upon  Endymion,  and 
the  sea  not  love  its  lovers  ?  " 

The  fresh  air  breathed  upon  our  faces  as  he 
spoke.  I  might  have  sailed  in  Hiero's  ship,  or 
in  Roman  galleys,  had  I  lived  long  centuries 
ago,  and  been  born  a  nobleman.  But  would  it 
be  so  sweet  a  remembrance,  that  of  lying  on  a 
marble  couch,  under  a  golden-faced  roof,  and 
within  doors  of  citron- wood  and  ivory,  and  sail 
ing  in  that  state  to  greet  queens  who  are  mum 
mies  now,  as  that  of  seeing  those  fair  figures, 
standing  under  the  great  gonfalon,  themselves 
as  lovely  as  Egyptian  belles,  and  going  to  see 
more  than  Egypt  dreamed. 

The  yacht  was  mine,  then,  and  not  Bourne's. 
I  took  Titbottom's  arm,  and  we  sauntered  tow 
ard  the  ferry.  What  sumptuous  sultan  was 
I,  with  this  sad  vizier  ?  My  languid  odalisque, 
the  sea,  lay  at  my  feet  as  we  advanced,  and 
sparkled  all  over  with  a  sunset  smile.  Had  I 
trusted  myself  to  her  arms,  to  be  borne  to  the 
realms  that  I  shall  never  see,  or  sailed  long 
voyages  towards  Cathay,  I  am  not  sure  I  should 
have  brought  a  more  precious  present  to  Prue, 
than  the  story  of  that  afternoon. 

"  Ought  I  to  have  gone  alone  ?  "  I  asked  her, 
as  I  ended. 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  103 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  with  you,"  she 
replied,  "for  I  had  work  to  do.  But  how 
strange  that  you  should  see  such  things  at 
Staten  Island.  I  never  did,  Mr.  Titbottom," 
said  she,  turning  to  my  deputy,  whom  I  had 
asked  to  tea. 

"  Madam,"  answered  Titbottom,  with  a  kind 
of  wan  and  quaint  dignity,  so  that  I  could  not 
help  thinking  he  must  have  arrived  in  that 
stray  ship  from  the  Spanish  armada,  "  neither 
did  Mr.  Bourne." 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES. 

"In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio." 

Hamlet. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES. 

"  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio." 

Hamlet. 

PRUE  and  I  do  not  entertain  much ;  our 
means  forbid  it.  In  truth,  other  people  en 
tertain  for  us.  We  enjoy  that  hospitality  of 
which  no  account  is  made.  We  see  the  show, 
and  hear  the  music,  and  smell  the  flowers,  of 
great  festivities,  tasting,  as  it  were,  the  drip 
pings  from  rich  dishes. 

Our  own  dinner  service  is  remarkably  plain, 
our  dinners,  even  on  state  occasions,  are  strictly 
in  keeping,  and  almost  our  only  guest  is  Tit- 
bottom.  I  buy  a  handful  of  roses  as  I  come 
up  from  the  office,  perhaps,  and  Prue  arranges 
them  so  prettily  in  a  glass  dish  for  the  centre 
of  the  table,  that,  even  when  I  have  hurried 
out  to  see  Aurelia  step  into  her  carriage  to  go 
out  to  dine,  I  have  thought  that  the  bouquet 
she  carried  was  not  more  beautiful  because  it 
was  more  costly. 

107 


108  PBUE  AND  I. 

I  grant  that  it  was  more  harmonious  with 
her  superb  beauty  and  her  rich  attire.  And  I 
have  no  doubt  that  if  Aurelia  knew  the  old 
man  whom  she  must  have  seen  so  often  watch 
ing  her,  and  his  wife,  who  ornaments  her  sex 
with  as  much  sweetness,  although  with  less 
splendor,  than  Aurelia  herself,  she  would  also 
acknowledge  that  the  nosegay  of  roses  was  as 
fine  and  fit  upon  their  table,  as  her  own  sump 
tuous  bouquet  is  for  herself.  I  have  so  much 
faith  in  the  perception  of  that  lovely  lady. 

It  is  my  habit — I  hope  I  may  say,  my  nature 
—  to  believe  the  best  of  people,  rather  than 
the  worst.  If  I  thought  that  all  this  sparkling 
setting  of  beauty,  —  this  fine  fashion,  —  these 
blazing  jewels,  and  lustrous  silks,  and  airy 
gauzes,  embellished  with  gold-threaded  em 
broidery  and  wrought  in  a  thousand  exquisite 
elaborations,  so  that  I  cannot  see  one  of  those 
lovely  girls  pass  me  by,  without  thanking  God 
for  the  vision,  —  if  I  thought  that  this  was  all, 
and  that,  underneath  her  lace  flounces  and  dia 
mond  bracelets,  Aurelia  was  a  sullen,  selfish 
woman,  then  I  should  turn  sadly  homeward, 
for  I  should  see  that  her  jewels  were  flashing 
scorn  upon  the  object  they  adorned,  that  her 
laces  were  of  a  more  exquisite  loveliness  than 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         109 

the  woman  whom  they  merely  touched  with  a 
superficial  grace.  It  would  be  like  a  gayly 
decorated  mausoleum,  —  bright  to  see,  but 
silent  and  dark  within. 

"  Great  excellences,  my  dear  Prue,"  I  some 
times  allow  myself  to  say,  "lie  concealed  in 
the  depths  of  character,  like  pearls  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  sea.  Under  the  laughing,  glancing 
surface,  how  little  they  are  suspected!  Per 
haps  love  is  nothing  else  than  the  sight  of 
them  by  one  person.  Hence  every  man's  mis 
tress  is  apt  to  be  an  enigma  to  everybody  else. 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  when  Aurelia  is 
engaged,  people  will  say  she  is  a  most  admi 
rable  girl,  certainly,  but  they  cannot  under 
stand  why  any  man  should  be  in  love  with 
her.  As  if  it  were  at  all  necessary  that  they 
should !  And  her  lover,  like  a  boy  who  finds 
a  pearl  in  the  public  street,  and  wonders  as 
much  that  others  did  not  see  it  as  that  he  did, 
will  tremble  until  he  knows  his  passion  is 
returned;  feeling,  of  course,  that  the  whole 
world  must  be  in  love  with  this  paragon,  who 
cannot  possibly  smile  upon  anything  so  un 
worthy  as  he. 

"I  hope,  therefore,  my  dear  Mrs.  Prue,"  I 
continue,  and  my  wife  looks  up,  with  pleased 


110  PRUE  AND  I. 

pride,  from  her  work,  as  if  I  were  such  an 
irresistible  humorist,  "you  will  allow  me  to 
believe  that  the  depth  may  be  calm,  although 
the  surface  is  dancing.  If  you  tell  me  that 
Aurelia  is  but  a  giddy  girl,  I  shall  believe  that 
you  think  so.  But  I  shall  know,  all  the  while, 
what  profound  dignity,  and  sweetness,  and 
peace,  lie  at  the  foundation  of  her  character." 

I  say  such  things  to  Titbottom,  during  the 
dull  season  at  the  office.  And  I  have  known 
him  sometimes  to  reply,  with  a  kind  of  dry, 
sad  humor,  not  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  joke,  but 
as  if  the  joke  must  be  made,  that  he  saw  no 
reason  why  I  should  be  dull  because  the  season 
was  so. 

"  And  what  do  I  know  of  Aurelia,  or  any 
other  girl  ? "  he  says  to  me  with  that  ab 
stracted  air,  "I,  whose  Aurelias  were  of  an 
other  century,  and  another  zone." 

Then  he  falls  into  a  silence  which  it  seems 
quite  profane  to  interrupt.  But  as  we  sit 
upon  our  high  stools,  at  the  desk,  opposite 
each  other,  I  leaning  upon  my  elbows,  and 
looking  at  him,  he,  with  sidelong  face,  glanc 
ing  out  of  the  window,  as  if  it  commanded  a 
boundless  landscape,  instead  of  a  dim,  dingy 
office  court,  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying :  — 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         Ill 

«  Well ! " 

He  turns  slowly,  and  I  go  chatting  on, — 
a  little  too  loquacious,  perhaps,  about  those 
young  girls.  But  I  know  that  Titbottom  re 
gards  such  an  excess  as  venial,  for  his  sadness 
is  so  sweet  that  you  could  believe  it  the  reflec 
tion  of  a  smile  from  long,  long  years  ago. 

One  day,  after  I  had  been  talking  for  a  long 
time,  and  we  had  put  up  our  books,  and  were 
preparing  to  leave,  he  stood  for  some  time  by 
the  window,  gazing  with  a  drooping  intentness, 
as  if  he  really  saw  something  more  than  the 
dark  court,  and  said  slowly :  — 

"  Perhaps  you  would  have  different  impres 
sions  of  things,  if  you  saw  them  through  my 
spectacles." 

There  was  no  change  in  his  expression.  He 
still  looked  from  the  window,  and  I  said :  — 

"Titbottom,  I  did  not  know  that  you  used 
glasses.  I  have  never  seen  you  wearing  spec 
tacles." 

"No,  I  don't  often  wear  them.  I  am  not 
very  fond  of  looking  through  them.  But  some 
times  an  irresistible  necessity  compels  me  to 
put  them  on,  and  I  cannot  help  seeing." 

Titbottom  sighed. 

"  Is  it  so  grievous  a  fate  to  see  ?  "  inquired  I. 


112  PRUE  AND   I. 

"  Yes ;  through  my  spectacles,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  slowly,  and  looking  at  me  with  wan  solem 
nity. 

It  grew  dark  as  we  stood  in  the  office  talk 
ing,  and,  taking  our  hats,  we  went  out  together. 
The  narrow  street  of  business  was  deserted. 
The  heavy  iron  shutters  were  gloomily  closed 
over  the  windows.  From  one  or  two  offices 
struggled  the  dim  gleam  of  an  early  candle,  by 
whose  light  some  perplexed  accountant  sat  be 
lated,  and  hunting  for  his  error.  A  careless 
clerk  passed,  whistling.  But  the  great  tide  of 
life  had  ebbed.  We  heard  its  roar  far  away, 
and  the  sound  stole  into  that  silent  street  like 
the  murmur  of  the  ocean  into  an  inland  dell. 

"  You  will  come  and  dine  with  us,  Titbottom  ?  " 

He  assented  by  continuing  to  walk  with  me, 
and  I  think  we  were  both  glad  when  we  reached 
the  house,  and  Prue  came  to  meet  us,  saying : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  hoped  you  would  bring  Mr. 
Titbottom  to  dine." 

Titbottom  smiled  gently,  and  answered :  — 

"  He  might  have  brought  his  spectacles  with 
him,  and  have  been  a  happier  man  for  it." 

Prue  looked  a  little  puzzled. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  "  you  must  know  that  our 
friend,  Mr.  Titbottom,  is  the  happy  possessor 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         113 

of  a  pair  of  wonderful  spectacles.  I  have  never 
seen  them,  indeed ;  and,  from  what  he  says,  I 
should  be  rather  afraid  of  being  seen  by  them. 
Most  short-sighted  persons  are  very  glad  to 
have  the  help  of  glasses;  but  Mr.  Titbottom 
seems  to  find  very  little  pleasure  in  his." 

"  It  is  because  they  make  him  too  far-sighted, 
perhaps,"  interrupted  Prue,  quietly,  as  she  took 
the  silver  soup-ladle  from  the  sideboard. 

We  sipped  our  wine  after  dinner,  and  Prue 
took  her.  work.  Can  a  man  be  too  far-sighted  ? 
I  did  not  ask  the  question  aloud.  The  very 
tone  in  which  Prue  had  spoken  convinced  me 
that  he  might. 

"  At  least,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  Titbottom  will  not 
refuse  to  tell  us  the  history  of  his  mysterious 
spectacles.  I  have  known  plenty  of  magic  in 
eyes  (and  I  glanced  at  the  tender  blue  eyes  of 
Prue),  but  I  have  not  heard  of  any  enchanted 
glasses." 

"  Yet  yon  must  have  seen  the  glass  in  which 
your  wife  looks  every  morning,  and,  I  take  it, 
that  glass  must  be  daily  enchanted,"  said  Tit- 
bottom,  with  a  bow  of  quaint  respect  to  my  wife. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  seen  such  a  blush  upon 
Prue's  cheek  since  —  well,  since  a  great  many 
years  ago. 
i 


114  PRTJE  AND   I. 

"I  will  gladly  tell  you  the  history  of  my 
spectacles,"  began  Titbottom.  "  It  is  very  sim 
ple  ;  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  a  great  many 
other  people  have  not  a  pair  of  the  same  kind. 
I  have  never,  indeed,  heard  of  them  by  the 
gross,  like  those  of  our  young  friend  Moses, 
the  son  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  In  fact,  I 
think  a  gross  would  be  quite  enough  to  supply 
the  world.  It  is  a  kind  of  article  for  which 
the  demand  does  not  increase  with  use.  If  we 
should  all  wear  spectacles  like  mine,  we  should 
never  smile  any  more.  Or  —  I  am  not  quite 
sure  —  we  should  all  be  very  happy." 

"A  very  important  difference,"  said  Prue, 
counting  her  stitches. 

"You  know  my  grandfather  Titbottom  was 
a  West  Indian.  A  large  proprietor,  and  an 
easy  man,  he  basked  in  the  tropical  sun,  lead 
ing  his  quiet,  luxurious  life.  He  lived  much 
alone,  and  was  what  people  called  eccentric  — 
by  which  I  understand  that  he  was  very  much 
himself,  and,  refusing  the  influence  of  other 
people,  they  had  their  revenges,  and  called  him 
names.  It  is  a  habit  not  exclusively  tropical. 
I  think  I  have  seen  the  same  thing  even  in 
this  city. 

"But  he  was   greatly  beloved  — my  bland 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         115 

and  bountiful  grandfather.  He  was  so  large- 
hearted  and  open-handed.  He  was  so  friendly, 
and  thoughtful,  and  genial  that  even  his  jokes 
had  the  air  of  graceful  benedictions.  He  did 
not  seem  to  grow  old,  and  he  was  one  of  those 
who  never  appear  to  have  been  very  young. 
He  flourished  in  a  perennial  maturity,  an  im 
mortal  middle  age. 

"  My  grandfather  lived  upon  one  of  the  small 
islands  —  St.  Kitt's  perhaps  —  and  his  domain 
extended  to  the  sea.  His  house,  a  rambling 
West  Indian  mansion,  was  surrounded  with 
deep,  spacious  piazzas,  covered  with  luxurious 
lounges,  among  which  one  capacious  chair  was 
his  peculiar  seat.  They  tell  me,  he  used  some 
times  to  sit  there  for  the  whole  day,  his  great, 
soft,  brown  eyes  fastened  upon  the  sea,  watch 
ing  the  specks  of  sails  that  flashed  upon  the 
horizon,  while  the  evanescent  expressions 
chased  each  other  over  his  placid  face  as  if 
it  reflected  the  calm  and  changing  sea  before 
him. 

"  His  morning  costume  was  an  ample  dress 
ing-gown  of  gorgeously  flowered  silk,  and  his 
morning  was  very  apt  to  last  all  day.  He 
rarely  read  ;  but  he  would  pace  the  great  piazza 
for  hours,  with  his  hands  buried  in  the  pockets 


116  PRUE   AND    I. 

of  his  dressing-gown,  and  an  air  of  sweet  rev- 
ery,  which  any  book  must  be  a  very  entertaining 
one  to  produce. 

"  Society,  of  course,  he  saw  little.  There 
was  some  slight  apprehension  that,  if  he  were 
bidden  to  social  entertainments,  he  might  for 
get  his  coat,  or  arrive  without  some  other  es 
sential  part  of  his  dress  ;  and  there  is  a  sly 
tradition  in  the  Titbottom  family  that  once, 
having  been  invited  to  a  ball  in  honor  of  a  new 
governor  of  the  island,  my  grandfather  Titbot 
tom  sauntered  into  the  hall  towards  midnight 
wrapped  in  the  gorgeous  flowers  of  his  dress 
ing-gown,  and  with  his  hands  buried  in  the 
pockets,  as  usual.  There  was  great  excitement 
among  the  guests,  and  immense  deprecation  of 
gubernatorial  ire.  Fortunately,  it  happened 
that  the  governor  and  my  grandfather  were  old 
friends,  and  there  was  no  offence.  But,  as  they 
were  conversing  together,  one  of  the  distressed 
managers  cast  indignant  glances  at  the  brilliant 
costume  of  my  grandfather,  who  summoned 
him,  and  asked  courteously :  — 

"  '  Did  you  invite  me,  or  my  coat  ? ' 

"  '  You  in  a  proper  coat,'  replied  the  manager. 

"The  governor  smiled  approvingly,  and 
looked  at  my  grandfather. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         117 

" '  My  friend,'  said  he  to  the  manager,  '  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I  forgot.' 

"  The  next  day,  my  grandfather  was  seen 
promenading  in  full  ball  dress  along  the  streets 
of  the  little  town. 

"  'They  ought  to  know,'  said  he, '  that  I  have 
a  proper  coat,  and  that  not  contempt,  nor  pov 
erty,  but  forgetfulness,  sent  me  to  a  ball  in  my 
dressing-gown.' 

"  He  did  not  much  frequent  social  festivals 
after  this  failure,  but  he  always  told  the  story 
with  satisfaction  and  a  quiet  smile. 

"  To  a  stranger,  life  upon  those  little  islands 
is  uniform  even  to  weariness.  But  the  old 
native  dons,  like  my  grandfather,  ripen  in  the 
prolonged  sunshine,  like  the  turtle  upon  the 
Bahama  banks,  nor  know  of  existence  more 
desirable.  Life  in  the  tropics  I  take  to  be  a 
placid  torpidity. 

"  During  the  long,  warm  mornings  of  nearly 
half  a  century,  my  grandfather  Titbottom  had 
sat  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  gazed  at  the  sea. 
But  one  calm  June  day,  as  he  slowly  paced  the 
piazza  after  breakfast,  his  dreamy  glance  was 
arrested  by  a  little  vessel,  evidently  nearing 
the  shore.  He  called  for  his  spyglass,  and,  sur 
veying  the  craft,  saw  that  she  came  from  the 


118  PRTJE  AND  I. 

neighboring  island.  She  glided  smoothly, 
slowly,  over  the  summer  sea.  The  warm  morn 
ing  air  was  sweet  with  perfumes,  and  silent 
with  heat.  The  sea  sparkled  languidly,  and 
the  brilliant  blue  sky  hung  cloudlessly  over. 
Scores  of  little  island  vessels  had  my  grand 
father  seen  coming  over  the  horizon,  and  cast 
anchor  in  the  port.  Hundreds  of  summer 
mornings  had  the  white  sails  flashed  and  faded, 
like  vague  faces  through  forgotten  dreams. 
But  this  time  he  laid  down  the  spyglass,  and 
leaned  against  a  column  of  the  piazza,  and 
watched  the  vessel  with  an  intentness  that  he 
could  not  explain.  She  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  a  graceful  spectre  in  the  dazzling 
morning. 

"  *  Decidedly,  I  must  step  down  and  see  about 
that  vessel,'  said  my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

"  He  gathered  his  ample  dressing-gown  about 
him,  and  stepped  from  the  piazza,  with  no  other 
protection  from  the  sun  than  the  little  smok- 
ing-cap  upon  his  head.  His  face  wore  a  calm, 
beaming  smile,  as  if  he  loved  the  whole  world. 
He  was  not  an  old  man ;  but  there  was  almost 
a  patriarchal  pathos  in  his  expression,  as  he 
sauntered  along  in  the  sunshine  towards  the 
shore.  A  group  of  idle  gazers  was  collected,  to 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         119 

watch  the  arrival.  The  little  vessel  furled  her 
sails,  and  drifted  slowly  landward,  and,  as  she 
was  of  very  light  draft,  she  came  close  to  the 
shelving  shore.  A  long  plank  was  put  out 
from  her  side,  and  the  debarkation  commenced. 

"My  grandfather  Titbottom  stood  looking 
on,  to  see  the  passengers  as  they  passed.  There 
were  but  a  few  of  them,  and  mostly  traders 
from  the  neighboring  island.  But  suddenly 
the  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared  over  the  side 
of  the  vessel,  and  she  stepped  upon  the  plank 
to  descend.  My  grandfather  Titbottom  in 
stantly  advanced,  and,  moving  briskly,  reached 
the  top  of  the  plank  at  the  same  moment,  and 
with  the  old  tassel  of  his  cap  flashing  in  the 
sun,  and  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  dress 
ing-gown,  with  the  other  he  handed  the  young 
lady  carefully  down  the  plank.  That  young 
lady  was  afterward  my  grandmother  Titbottom. 

"For,  over  the  gleaming  sea  which  he  had 
watched  so  long,  and  which  seemed  thus  to  re 
ward  his  patient  gaze,  came  his  bride  that 
sunny  morning. 

" '  Of  course,  we  are  happy,'  he  used  to  say  to 
her,  after  they  were  married :  '  for  you  are  the 
gift  of  the  sun  I  have  loved  so  long  and  so 
well.'  And  my  grandfather  Titbottom  would 


120  PRTJE  AND   I. 

lay  his  hand  so  tenderly  upon  the  golden  hair 
of  his  young  bride,  that  you  could  fancy  him  a 
devout  Parsee,  caressing  sunbeams. 

"There  were  endless  festivities  upon  occa 
sion  of  the  marriage ;  and  my  grandfather  did 
not  go  to  one  of  them  in  his  dressing-gown. 
The  gentle  sweetness  of  his  wife  melted  every 
heart  into  love  and  sympathy.  He  was  much 
older  than  she,  without  doubt.  But  age,  as  he 
used  to  say  with  a  smile  of  immortal  youth,  is 
a  matter  of  feeling,  not  of  years. 

"  And  if,  sometimes,  as  she  sat  by  his  side 
on  the  piazza,  her  fancy  looked  through  her 
eyes  upon  that  summer  sea,  and  saw  a  younger 
lover,  perhaps  some  one  of  those  graceful  and 
glowing  heroes  who  occupy  the  foreground  of 
all  young  maidens'  visions  by  the  sea,  yet  she 
could  not  find  one  more  generous  and  gracious, 
nor  fancy  one  more  worthy  and  loving,  than 
my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

"  And  if,  in  the  moonlit  midnight,  while  he 
lay  calmly  sleeping,  she  leaned  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  sank  into  vague  reveries  of  sweet 
possibility,  and  watched  the  gleaming  path  of 
the  moonlight  upon  the  water,  until  the  dawn 
glided  over  it  —  it  was  only  that  mood  of 
nameless  regret  and  longing,  which  underlies 


And  sometimes  she  sat  by  his  side, 
on  the  piazza. 


120  PI  i. 


ae  golden  hair 
could  fancy  him  a 
.ms. 

ax>n  occa- 
randfather  did 


' 

heart  into  love  a»;':  He  was  much 

IJut  age,  as  he 

vied  to  i»ay  with  b  ortal  youth,  IB 

<*ars. 

•1  through  her 
a  younger 


uor  f  )rthy  and  loving,  thau 

om. 

moonlit  midnight,  whi 

lay  calmly  ;,  she  leaned  out  of  the  win 

dow,  and  sank  into  vague  reveries  of  sweet 
possibility,  and  watched  the  gleaming  path  of 
icnlight  upon  the  water,  until  the  dawn 
glided  over  it  —  it  was  only  that  mood  of 
nameless  regret  and  longing,  which  underli-: 

,3bia  airi  yd  tea  sria  aemitemoa  bnA 
erlt  no 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES.  121 

all  human  happiness;  or  it  was  the  vision  of 
that  life  of  cities  and  the  world,  which  she 
had  never  seen,  but  of  which  she  had  often 
read,  and  which  looked  very  fair  and  alluring 
across  the  sea,  to  a  girlish  imagination,  which 
knew  that  it  should  never  see  that  reality. 

"These  West  Indian  years  were  the  great 
days  of  the  family,"  said  Titbottom,  with  an 
air  of  majestic  and  regal  regret,  pausing,  and 
musing,  in  our  little  parlor,  like  a  late  Stuart 
in  exile,  remembering  England. 

Prue  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  and 
looked  at  him  with  subdued  admiration ;  for  I 
have  observed  that,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex, 
she  has  a  singular  sympathy  with  the  repre 
sentative  of  a  reduced  family. 

Perhaps  it  is  their  finer  perception,  which 
leads  these  tender-hearted  women  to  recognize 
the  divine  right  of  social  superiority  so  much 
more  readily  than  we ;  and  yet,  much  as  Tit- 
bottom  was  enhanced  in  my  wife's  admiration 
by  the  discovery  that  his  dusky  sadness  of 
nature  and  expression  was,  as  it  were,  the  ex 
piring  gleam  and  late  twilight  of  ancestral 
splendors,  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Bourne  would  have 
preferred  him  for  book-keeper  a  moment  sooner 
upon  that  account.  In  truth,  I  have  observed, 


122  PRUE  AND   I. 

down  town,  that  the  fact  of  your  ancestors 
doing  nothing  is  not  considered  good  proof 
that  you  can  do  anything. 

But  Prue  and  her  sex  regard  sentiment  more 
than  action,  and  I  understand  easily  enough 
why  she  is  never  tired  of  hearing  me  read  of 
Prince  Charlie.  If  Titbottom  had  been  only  a 
little  younger,  a  little  handsomer,  a  little  more 
gallantly  dressed  —  in  fact,  a  little  more  of  a 
Prince  Charlie,  I  am  sure  her  eyes  would  not 
have  fallen  again  upon  her  work  so  tranquilly, 
as  he  resumed  his  story. 

"  I  can  remember  my  grandfather  Titbottom, 
although  I  was  a  very  young  child,  and  he  was 
a  very  old  man.  My  young  mother  and  my 
young  grandmother  are  very  distinct  figures  in 
my  memory,  ministering  to  the  old  gentleman, 
wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  seated  upon 
the  piazza.  I  remember  his  white  hair,  and 
his  calm  smile,  and  how,  not  long  before  he 
died,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  my  head  said  to  me :  — 

"'My  child,  the  world  is  not  this  great 
sunny  piazza,  nor  life  the  fairy  stories  which 
the  women  tell  you  here,  as  you  sit  in  their 
laps.  I  shall  soon  be  gone,  but  I  want  to  leave 
with  you  some  memento  of  my  love  for  you, 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         123 

and  I  know  of  nothing  more  valuable  than  these 
spectacles,  which  your  grandmother  brought 
from  her  native  island,  when  she  arrived  here 
one  fine  summer  morning,  long  ago.  I  cannot 
tell  whether,  when  you  grow  older,  you  will 
regard  them  as  a  gift  of  the  greatest  value,  or 
as  something  you  had  been  happier  never  to 
have  possessed.' 

" '  But,  grandpapa,  I  am  not  short-sighted.' 
"'My  son,  are  you  not  human?'   said  the 
old  gentleman;  and  how  shall  I  ever  forget 
the  thoughtful    sadness  with  which,   at    the 
same  time,  he  handed  me  the  spectacles. 

"  Instinctively  I  put  them  on,  and  looked  at 
my  grandfather.  But  I  saw  no  grandfather, 
no  piazza,  no  flowered  dressing-gown;  I  saw 
only  a  luxuriant  palm  tree,  waving  broadly 
over  a  tranquil  landscape;  pleasant  homes 
clustered  around  it;  gardens  teeming  with 
fruit  and  flowers  ;  flocks  quietly  feeding;  birds 
wheeling  and  chirping.  I  heard  children's 
voices,  and  the  low  lullaby  of  happy  mothers. 
The  sound  of  cheerful  singing  came  wafted 
from  distant  fields  upon  the  light  breeze. 
Golden  harvests  glistened  out  of  sight,  and  I 
caught  their  rustling  whispers  of  prosperity. 
A  warm,  mellow  atmosphere  bathed  the  whole. 


124  PRUB  AND  I. 

"  I  have  seen  copies  of  the  landscapes  of  the 
Italian  painter  Claude,  which  seemed  to  me 
faint  reminiscences  of  that  calm  and  happy 
vision.  But  all  this  peace  and  prosperity 
seemed  to  flow  from  the  spreading  palm  as 
from  a  fountain. 

"I  do  not  know  how  long  I  looked,  but  I 
had,  apparently,  no  power,  as  I  had  no  will, 
to  remove  the  spectacles.  What  a  wonderful 
island  must  Nevis  be,  thought  I,  if  people 
carry  such  pictures  in  their  pockets,  only  by 
buying  a  pair  of  spectacles  !  What  wonder 
that  my  dear  grandmother  Titbottom  has  lived 
such  a  placid  life,  and  has  blessed  us  all  with 
her  sunny  temper,  when  she  has  lived  sur 
rounded  by  such  images  of  peace! 

"My  grandfather  died.  But  still,  in  the 
warm  morning  sunshine  upon  the  piazza,  I 
felt  his  placid  presence,  and  as  I  crawled 
into  his  great  chair,  and  drifted  on  in  revery 
through  the  still  tropical  day,  it  was  as  if  his 
soft  dreamy  eye  had  passed  into  my  soul.  My 
grandmother  cherished  his  memory  with  ten 
der  regret.  A  violent  passion  of  grief  for  his 
loss  was  no  more  possible  than  for  the  pensive 
decay  of  the  year. 

"We  have  no  portrait  of  him,  but  I  see 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         125 

always,  when  I  remember  him,  that  peaceful 
and  luxuriant  palm.  And  I  think  that  to 
have  known  one  good  old  man  —  one  man  who, 
through  the  chances  and  rubs  of  a  long  life, 
has  carried  his  heart  in  his  hand,  like  a  palm 
branch,  waving  all  discords  into  peace,  helps 
our  faith  in  God,  in  ourselves,  and  in  each 
other,  more  than  many  sermons.  I  hardly 
know  whether  to  be  grateful  to  my  grand 
father  for  the  spectacles;  and  yet  when  I  re 
member  that  it  is  to  them  I  owe  the  pleasant 
image  of  him  which  I  cherish,  I  seem  to  my 
self  sadly  ungrateful. 

"  Madam,"  said  Titbottom  to  Prue,  solemnly, 
"my  memory  is  a  long  and  gloomy  gallery, 
and  only  remotely,  at  its  further  end,  do  I  see 
the  glimmer  of  soft  sunshine,  and  only  there 
are  the  pleasant  pictures  hung.  They  seem 
to  me  very  happy  along  whose  gallery  the 
sunlight  streams  to  their  very  feet,  strik 
ing  all  the  pictured  walls  into  unfading 
splendor." 

Prue  had  laid  her  work  in  her  lap,  and  as 
Titbottom  paused  a  moment,  and  I  turned 
towards  her,  I  found  her  mild  eyes  fastened 
upon  my  face,  and  glistening  with  many  tears. 
I  knew  that  the  tears  meant  that  she  felt  her- 


126  PEUE  AND  I. 

self  to  be  one  of  those  who  seemed  to  Titbot- 
tom  very  happy. 

"Misfortunes  of  many  kinds  came  heavily 
upon  the  family  after  the  head  was  gone.  The 
great  house  was  relinquished.  My  parents  were 
both  dead,  and  my  grandmother  had  entire 
charge  of  me.  But  from  the  moment  that  I 
received  the  gift  of  the  spectacles,  I  could  not 
resist  their  fascination,  and  I  withdrew  into 
myself,  and  became  a  solitary  boy.  There 
were  not  many  companions  for  me  of  my  own 
age,  and  they  gradually  left  me,  or,  at  least, 
had  not  a  hearty  sympathy  with  me;  for,  if 
they  teased  me,  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles 
and  surveyed  them  so  seriously  that  they  ac 
quired  a  kind  of  awe  of  me,  and  evidently 
regarded  my  grandfather's  gift  as  a  concealed 
magical  weapon  which  might  be  dangerously 
drawn  upon  them  at  any  moment.  Whenever, 
in  our  games,  there  were  quarrels  and  high 
words,  and  I  began  to  feel  about  my  dress 
and  to  wear  a  grave  look,  they  all  took  the 
alarm,  and  shouted,  <  Look  out  for  Titbottom's 
spectacles,'  and  scattered  like  a  flock  of  scared 
sheep. 

"Nor  could  I  wonder  at  it.  For,  at  first, 
before  they  took  the  alarm,  I  saw  strange 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         127 

sights  when  I  looked  at  them  through  the 
glasses. 

"  If  two  were  quarrelling  about  a  marble  or 
a  ball,  I  had  only  to  go  behind  a  tree  where 
I  was  concealed  and  look  at  them  leisurely. 
Then  the  scene  changed,  and  it  was  no  longer 
a  green  meadow  with  boys  playing,  but  a  spot 
which  I  did  not  recognize,  and  forms  that  made 
me  shudder,  or  smile.  It  was  not  a  big  boy 
bullying  a  little  one,  but  a  young  wolf  with 
glistening  teeth  and  a  lamb  cowering  before 
him;  or  it  was  a  dog  faithful  and  famishing 
—  or  a  star  going  slowly  into  eclipse  —  or  a 
rainbow  fading  —  or  a  flower  blooming — or  a 
sun  rising  —  or  a  waning  moon. 

"The  revelations  of  the  spectacles  deter 
mined  my  feeling  for  the  boys,  and  for  all 
whom  I  saw  through  them.  No  shyness,  nor 
awkwardness,  nor  silence,  could  separate  me 
from  those  who  looked  lovely  as  lilies  to  my 
illuminated  eyes.  But  the  vision  made  me 
afraid.  If  I  felt  myself  warmly  drawn  to  any 
one,  I  struggled  with  the  fierce  desire  of  seeing 
him  through  the  spectacles,  for  I  feared  to  find 
him  something  else  than  I  fancied.  I  longed 
to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  ignorant  feeling,  to  love 
without  knowing,  to  float  like  a  leaf  upon  the 


128  PRUE   AND   I. 

eddies  of  life,  drifted  now  to  a  sunny  point, 
now  to  a  solemn  shade  —  now  over  glittering 
ripples,  now  over  gleaming  calms,  —  and  not  to 
determined  ports,  a  trim  vessel  with  an  inexo 
rable  rudder. 

"  But  sometimes,  mastered  after  long  strug 
gles,  as  if  the  unavoidable  condition  of  owning 
the  spectacles  were  using  them,  I  seized  them 
and  sauntered  into  the  little  town.  Putting 
them  to  my  eyes  I  peered  into  the  houses  and 
at  the  people  who  passed  me.  Here  sat  a 
family  at  breakfast,  and  I  stood  at  the  window 
looking  in.  0  motley  meal !  fantastic  vision ! 
The  good  mother  saw  her  lord  sitting  opposite, 
a  grave,  respectable  being,  eating  muffins. 
But  I  saw  only  a  bank-bill,  more  or  less 
crumbled  and  tattered,  marked  with  a  larger  or 
lesser  figure.  If  a  sharp  wind  blew  suddenly, 
I  saw  it  tremble  and  nutter ;  it  was  thin,  flat, 
impalpable.  I  removed  my  glasses,  and  looked 
with  my  eyes  at  the  wife.  I  could  have  smiled 
to  see  the  humid  tenderness  with  which  she 
regarded  her  strange  vis-&-vis.  Is  life  only  a 
game  of  blindman's  buff  ?  of  droll  cross- 
purposes  ? 

"  Or  I  put  them  on  again,  and  then  looked  at 
the  wives.  How  many  stout  trees  I  saw, — 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         129 

how  many  tender  flowers,  —  how  many  placid 
pools ;  yes,  and  how  many  little  streams  wind 
ing  out  of  sight,  shrinking  before  the  large, 
hard,  round  eyes  opposite,  and  slipping  off  into 
solitude  and  shade,  with  a  low,  inner  song  for 
their  own  solace. 

"In  many  houses  I  thought  to  see  angels, 
nymphs,  or,  at  least,  women,  and  could  only 
find  broomsticks,  mops,  or  kettles,  hurrying 
about,  rattling  and  tinkling,  in  a  state  of  shrill 
activity.  I  made  calls  upon  elegant  ladies,  and 
after  I  had  enjoyed  the  gloss  of  silk,  and  the 
delicacy  of  lace,  and  the  glitter  of  jewels,  I 
slipped  on  my  spectacles,  and  saw  a  peacock's 
feather,  flounced,  and  furbelowed,  and  flutter 
ing  ;  or  an  iron  rod,  thin,  sharp,  and  hard ;  nor 
could  I  possibly  mistake  the  movement  of  the 
drapery  for  any  flexibility  of  the  thing  draped. 

"  Or,  mysteriously  chilled,  I  saw  a  statue  of 
perfect  form,  or  flowing  movement,  it  might  be 
alabaster,  or  bronze,  or  marble,  —  but  sadly 
often  it  was  ice ;  and  I  knew  that  after  it  had 
shone  a  little,  and  frozen  a  few  eyes  with  its 
despairing  perfection,  it  could  not  be  put  away 
in  the  niches  of  palaces  for  ornament  and  proud 
family  tradition,  like  the  alabaster,  or  bronze, 
or  marble  statues,  but  would  melt,  and  shrink, 


130  PKUE  AND  I. 

and  fall  coldly  away  in  colorless  and  useless 
water,  be  absorbed  in  the  earth  and  utterly 
forgotten. 

"  But  the  true  sadness  was  rather  in  seeing 
those  who,  not  having  the  spectacles,  thought 
that  the  iron  rod  was  flexible,  and  the  ice  statue 
warm.  I  saw  many  a  gallant  heart,  which 
seemed  to  me  brave  and  loyal  as  the  crusaders, 
pursuing,  through  days  and  nights,  and  a  long 
life  of  devotion,  the  hope  of  lighting  at  least  a 
smile  in  the  cold  eyes,  if  not  a  fire  in  the  icy 
heart.  I  watched  the  earnest,  enthusiastic  sac 
rifice.  I  saw  the  pure  resolve,  the  generous 
faith,  the  fine  scorn  of  doubt,  the  impatience 
of  suspicion.  I  watched  the  grace,  the  ardor, 
the  glory  of  devotion.  Through  those  strange 
spectacles  how  often  I  saw  the  noblest  heart 
renouncing  all  other  hope,  all  other  ambition, 
all  other  life,  than  the  possible  love  of  some 
one  of  those  statues. 

"  Ah !  me,  it  was  terrible,  but  they  had  not 
the  love  to  give.  The  face  was  so  polished  and 
smooth,  because  there  was  no  sorrow  in  the 
heart,  —  and  drearily,  often,  no  heart  to  be 
touched.  I  could  not  wonder  that  the  noble 
heart  of  devotion  was  broken,  for  it  had  dashed 
itself  against  a  stone.  I  wept,  until  my  specta- 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         131 

cles  were  dimmed,  for  those  hopeless  lovers; 
but  there  was  a  pang  beyond  tears  for  those 
icy  statues. 

"  Still  a  boy,  I  was  thus  too  much  a  man  in 
knowledge,  —  I  did  not  comprehend  the  sights 
I  was  compelled  to  see.  I  used  to  tear  my 
glasses  away  from  my  eyes,  and,  frightened  at 
myself,  run  to  escape  my  own  consciousness. 
Reaching  the  small  house  where  we  then  lived, 
I  plunged  into  my  grandmother's  room,  and, 
throwing  myself  upon  the  floor,  buried  my  face 
in  her  lap;  and  sobbed  myself  to  sleep  with 
premature  grief. 

"But  when  I  awakened,  and  felt  her  cool 
hand  upon  my  hot  forehead,  and  heard  the  low 
sweet  song,  or  the  gentle  story,  or  the  tenderly 
told  parable  from  the  Bible,  with  which  she 
tried  to  soothe  me,  I  could  not  resist  the  mys 
tic  fascination  that  lured  me,  as  I  lay  in  her 
lap,  to  steal  a  glance  at  her  through  the  spec 
tacles. 

"  Pictures  of  the  Madonna  have  not  her  rare 
and  pensive  beauty.  Upon  the  tranquil  little 
islands  her  life  had  been  eventless,  and  all  the 
fine  possibilities  of  her  nature  were  like  flow 
ers  that  never  bloomed.  Placid  were  all  her 
years;  yet  I  have  read  of  no  heroine,  of  no 


132  PRUE    AND   I. 

woman  great  in  sudden  crises,  that  it  did  not 
seem  to  me  she  might  have  been.  The  wife 
and  widow  of  a  man  who  loved  his  home  better 
than  the  homes  of  others,  I  have  yet  heard  of 
no  queen,  no  belle,  no  imperial  beauty,  whom 
in  grace,  and  brilliancy,  and  persuasive  cour 
tesy  she  might  not  have  surpassed. 

"  Madam,"  said  Titbottom  to  my  wife,  whose 
heart  hung  upon  his  story,  "your  husband's 
young  friend,  Aurelia,  wears  sometimes  a  ca- 
melia  in  her  hair,  and  no  diamond  in  the  ball 
room  seems  so  costly  as  that  perfect  flower, 
which  women  envy,  and  for  whose  least  and 
withered  petal  men  sigh;  yet,  in  the  tropical 
solitudes  of  Brazil,  how  many  a  camelia  bud 
drops  from  the  bush  that  no  eye  has  ever  seen, 
which,  had  it  flowered  and  been  noticed,  would 
have  gilded  all  hearts  with  its  memory. 

"  When  I  stole  these  furtive  glances  at  my 
grandmother,  half  fearing  that  they  were  wrong, 
I  saw  only  a  calm  lake,  whose  shores  were  low, 
and  over  which  the  sun  hung  unbroken,  so  that 
the  least  star  was  clearly  reflected.  It  had  an 
atmosphere  of  solemn  twilight  tranquillity,  and 
so  completely  did  its  unruffled  surface  blend 
with  the  cloudless,  star-studded  sky,  that,  when 
I  looked  through  my  spectacles  at  my  grand- 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.          133 

mother,  the  vision  seemed  to  me  all  heaven 
and  stars. 

"Yet,  as  I  gazed  and  gazed,  I  felt  what 
stately  cities  might  well  have  been  built  upon 
those  shores,  and  have  flashed  prosperity  over 
the  calm,  like  coruscations  of  pearls.  I  dreamed 
of  gorgeous  fleets,  silken-sailed,  and  blown  by 
perfumed  winds,  drifting  over  those  depthless 
waters  and  through  those  spacious  skies.  I 
gazed  upon  the  twilight,  the  inscrutable  silence, 
like  a  God-fearing  discoverer  upon  a  new  and 
vast  sea  bursting  upon  him  through  forest 
glooms,  arid  in  the  fervor  of  whose  impassioned 
gaze  a  millennial  and  poetic  world  arises,  and 
man  need  no  longer  die  to  be  happy. 

"  My  companions  naturally  deserted  me,  for 
I  had  grown  wearily  grave  and  abstracted: 
and,  unable  to  resist  the  allurements  of  my 
spectacles,  I  was  constantly  lost  in  the  world, 
of  which  those  companions  were  part,  yet  of 
which  they  knew  nothing. 

"I  grew  cold  and  hard,  almost  morose; 
people  seemed  to  me  so  blind  and  unreasonable. 
They  did  the  wrong  thing.  They  called  green, 
yellow  ;  and  black,  white.  Young  men  said  of 
a  girl,  '  What  a  lovely,  simple  creature ! '  I 
looked,  and  there  was  only  a  glistening  wisp  of 


134  PRUE  AND  I. 

straw,  dry  and  hollow.  Or  they  said,  'What  a 
cold,  proud  beauty ! '  I  looked,  and  lo !  a 
Madonna,  whose  heart  held  the  world.  Or 
they  said, '  What  a  wild,  giddy  girl ! '  and  I  saw 
a  glancing,  dancing  mountain  stream,  pure  as  the 
virgin  snows  whence  it  flowed,  singing  through 
sun  and  shade,  over  pearls  and  gold  dust, 
slipping  along  unstained  by  weed  or  rain,  or 
heavy  foot  of  cattle,  touching  the  flowers  with 
a  dewy  kiss,  —  a  beam  of  grace,  a  happy  song,  a 
line  of  light,  in  the  dim  and  troubled  landscape. 

"  My  grandmother  sent  me  to  school,  but  I 
looked  at  the  master,  and  saw  that  he  was  a 
smooth  round  ferule,  or  an  improper  noun,  or 
a  vulgar  fraction,  and  refused  to  obey  him.  Or 
he  was  a  piece  of  string,  a  rag,  a  willow-wand, 
and  I  had  a  contemptuous  pity.  But  one  was 
a  well  of  cool,  deep  water,  and  looking  suddenly 
in,  one  day,  I  saw  the  stars. 

"  That  one  gave  me  all  my  schooling.  With 
him  I  used  to  walk  by  the  sea,  and,  as  we 
strolled  and  the  waves  plunged  in  long  legions 
before  us,  I  looked  at  him  through  the  spec 
tacles,  and  as  his  eyes  dilated  with  the  boundless 
view,  and  his  chest  heaved  with  an  impossible 
desire,  I  saw  Xerxes  and  his  army,  tossed  and 
glittering,  rank  upon  rank,  multitude  upon 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         135 

multitude,  out  of  sight,  but  ever  regularly  ad 
vancing,  and,  with  confused  roar  of  ceaseless 
music,  prostrating  themselves  in  abject  homage. 
Or,  as  with  arms  outstretched  and  hair  stream 
ing  on  the  wind,  he  chanted  full  lines  of  the 
resounding  Iliad,  I  saw  Homer  pacing  the  Egean 
sands  of  the  Greek  sunsets  of  forgotten  times. 

"  My  grandmother  died,  and  I  was  thrown 
into  the  world  without  resources,  and  with 
no  capital  but  my  spectacles.  I  tried  to  find 
employment,  but  everybody  was  shy  of  me. 
There  was  a  vague  suspicion  that  I  was  either 
a  little  crazed,  or  a  good  deal  in  league  with 
the  prince  of  darkness.  My  companions,  who 
would  persist  in  calling  a  piece  of  painted 
muslin  a  fair  and  fragrant  flower,  had  no 
difficulty ;  success  waited  for  them  around 
every  corner,  and  arrived  in  every  ship. 

"  I  tried  to  teach,  for  I  loved  children.  But 
if  anything  excited  a  suspicion  of  my  pupils, 
and  putting  on  my  spectacles,  I  saw  that  I  was 
fondling  a  snake,  or  smelling  at  a  bud  with  a 
worm  in  it,  I  sprang  up  in  horror  and  ran  away ; 
or,  if  it  seemed  to  me  through  the  glasses,  that 
a  cherub  smiled  upon  me,  or  a  rose  was  bloom 
ing  in  my  button-hole,  then  I  felt  myself  im 
perfect  and  impure,  not  fit  to  be  leading  and 


136  PRUE   AND   I. 

training  what  was  so  essentially  superior  to 
myself,  and  I  kissed  the  children  and  left  them 
weeping  and  wondering. 

"In  despair  I  went  to  a  great  merchant  on 
the  island,  and  asked  him  to  employ  me. 

" '  My  dear  young  friend,'  said  he,  '  I  under 
stand  that  you  have  some  singular  secret,  some 
charm,  or  spell,  or  amulet,  or  something,  I 
don't  know  what,  of  which  people  are  afraid. 
Now  you  know,  my  dear,'  said  the  merchant, 
swelling  up,  and  apparently  prouder  of  his 
great  stomach  than  of  his  large  fortune,  '  I  am 
not  of  that  kind.  I  am  not  easily  frightened. 
You  may  spare  yourself  the  pain  of  trying  to 
impose  upon  me.  People  who  propose  to  come 
to  time  before  I  arrive,  are  accustomed  to  arise 
very  early  in  the  morning,'  said  he,  thrusting 
his  thumbs  in  the  arrnholes  of  his  waistcoat, 
and  spreading  the  fingers  like  two  fans,  upon 
his  bosom.  '  I  think  I  have  heard  something 
of  your  secret.  You  have  a  pair  of  spectacles, 
I  believe,  that  you  value  very  much,  because 
your  grandmother  brought  them  as  a  marriage 
portion  to  your  grandfather.  Now,  if  you 
think  fit  to  sell  me  those  spectacles,  I  will  pay 
you  the  largest  market  price  for  them.  What 
do  you  say  ? ' 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         137 

"I  told  him  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of 
selling  my  spectacles. 

"'My  young  friend  means  to  eat  them,  I 
suppose,'  said  he,  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"  I  made  no  reply,  but  was  turning  to  leave 
the  office,  when  the  merchant  called  after  me :  — 

" '  My  young  friend,  poor  people  should  never 
suffer  themselves  to  get  into  pets.  Anger  is 
an  expensive  luxury,  in  which  only  men  of  a 
certain  income  can  indulge.  A  pair  of  specta 
cles  and  a  hot  temper  are  not  the  most  promis 
ing  capital  for  success  in  life,  Master  Titbottom.' 

"  I  said  nothing,  but  put  my  hand  upon  the 
door  to  go  out,  when  the  merchant  said,  more 
respectfully :  — 

"  *  Well,  you  foolish  boy,  if  you  will  not  sell 
your  spectacles,  perhaps  you  will  agree  to  sell 
the  use  of  them  to  me.  That  is,  you  shall  only 
put  them  on  when  I  direct  you,  and  for  my 
purposes.  Hallo !  you  little  fool ! '  cried  he, 
impatiently,  as  he  saw  that  I  intended  to  make 
no  reply. 

"But  I  had  pulled  out  my  spectacles  and 
put  them  on  for  my  own  purposes,  and  against 
his  wish  and  desire.  I  looked  at  him,  and  saw 
a  huge,  bald-headed  wild  boar,  with  gross  chaps 
and  a  leering  eye  —  only  the  more  ridiculous 


138  PRUE  AND   I. 

for  the  high-arched,  gold-bowed  spectacles  that 
straddled  his  nose.  One  of  his  fore-hoofs  was 
thrust  into  the  safe,  where  his  bills  receivable 
were  hived,  and  the  other  into  his  pocket, 
among  the  loose  change  and  bills  there.  His 
ears  were  pricked  forward  with  a  brisk,  sensi 
tive  smartness.  In  a  world  where  prize  pork 
was  the  best  excellence,  he  would  have  carried 
off  all  the  premiums. 

"  I  stepped  into  the  next  office  in  the  street, 
and  a  mild-faced,  genial  man,  also  a  large  and 
opulent  merchant,  asked  me  my  business  in 
such  a  tone,  that  I  instantly  looked  through 
my  spectacles,  and  saw  a  land  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey.  There  I  pitched  my  tent, 
and  staid  till  the  good  man  died,  and  his  busi 
ness  was  discontinued. 

"But  while  there,"  said  Titbottom,  and  his 
voice  trembled  away  into  a  sigh,  "  I  first  saw 
Preciosa.  Despite  the  spectacles,  I  saw  Pre- 
ciosa.  For  days,  for  weeks,  for  months,  I  did 
not  take  my  spectacles  with  me.  I  ran  away 
from  them,  I  threw  them  up  on  high  shelves, 
I  tried  to  make  up  my  mind  to  throw  them 
into  the  sea,  or  down  the  well.  I  could  not, 
I  would  not,  I  dared  not,  look  at  Preciosa 
through  the  spectacles.  It  was  not  possible 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         139 

for  me  deliberately  to  destroy  them;  but  I 
awoke  in  the  night,  and  could  almost  have 
cursed  my  dear  old  grandfather  for  his  gift. 

"I  sometimes  escaped  from  the  office,  and 
sat  for  whole  days  with  Preciosa.  I  told  her 
the  strange  things  I  had  seen  with  my  mystic 
glasses.  The  hours  were  not  enough  for  the 
wild  romances  which  I  raved  in  her  ear.  She 
listened,  astonished  and  appalled.  Her  blue 
eyes  turned  upon  me  with  sweet  deprecation. 
She  clung  to  me,  and  then  withdrew,  and  fled 
fearfully  from  the  room. 

"But  she  could  not  stay  away.  She  could 
not  resist  my  voice,  in  whose  tones  burnt  all 
the  love  that  filled  my  heart  and  brain.  The 
very  effort  to  resist  the  desire  of  seeing  her  as 
I  saw  everybody  else,  gave  a  frenzy  and  an 
unnatural  tension  to  my  feeling  and  my  man 
ner.  I  sat  by  her  side,  looking  into  her  eyes, 
smoothing  her  hair,  folding  her  to  my  heart, 
which  was  sunken  deep  and  deep  —  why  not  for 
ever  ?  —  in  that  dream  of  peace.  I  ran  from  her 
presence,  and  shouted,  and  leaped  with  joy,  and 
sat  the  whole  night  through,  thrilled  into  happi 
ness  by  the  thought  of  her  love  and  loveliness, 
like  a  wind-harp,  tightly  strung,  and  answering 
the  airiest  sigh  of  the  breeze  with  music. 


140  PRUE  AND   I. 

"  Then  came  calmer  days  —  the  conviction  of 
deep  love  settled  upon  our  lives  —  as  after  the 
hurrying,  heaving  days  of  spring  comes  the 
bland  and  benignant  summer. 

"'It  is  no  dream,  then,  after  all,  and  we 
are  happy,'  I  said  to  her,  one  day ;  and  there 
came  no  answer,  for  happiness  is  speech 
less. 

"'We  are  happy,  then,'  I  said  to  myself, 
'there  is  no  excitement  now.  How  glad  I 
am  that  I  can  now  look  at  her  through  my 
spectacles.' 

"I  feared  lest  some  instinct  should  warn 
me  to  beware.  I  escaped  from  her  arms,  and 
ran  home  and  seized  the  glasses,  and  bounded 
back  again  to  Preciosa.  As  I  entered  the  room 
I  was  heated,  my  head  was  swimming  with 
confused  apprehensions,  my  eyes  must  have 
glared.  Preciosa  was  frightened,  and  rising 
from  her  seat,  stood  with  an  inquiring  glance 
of  surprise  in  her  eyes. 

"  But  I  was  bent  with  frenzy  upon  my  pur 
pose.  I  was  merely  aware  that  she  was  in  the 
room.  I  saw  nothing  else.  I  heard  nothing. 
I  cared  for  nothing,  but  to  see  her  through  that 
magic  glass,  and  feel  at  once  all  the  fulness  of 
blissful  perfection  which  that  would  reveal. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.          141 

Preciosa  stood  before  the  mirror,  but  alarmed 
at  my  wild  and  eager  movements,  unable  to 
distinguish  what  I  had  in  my  hands,  and  see 
ing  me  raise  them  suddenly  to  my  face,  she 
shrieked  with  terror,  and  fell  fainting  upon  the 
floor,  at  the  very  moment  that  I  placed  the 
glasses  before  my  eyes,  and  beheld  —  myself, 
reflected  in  the  mirror,  before  which  she  had 
been  standing. 

"  Dear  madam,"  cried  Titbottom,  to  my  wife, 
springing  up  and  falling  back  again  in  his 
chair,  pale  and  trembling,  while  Prue  ran  to 
him  and  took  his  hand,  and  I  poured  out  a 
glass  of  water  —  "I  saw  myself." 

There  was  silence  for  many  minutes.  Prue 
laid  her  hand  gently  upon  the  head  of  our  guest, 
whose  eyes  were  closed,  and  who  breathed  softly 
like  an  infant  in  sleeping.  Perhaps,  in  all  the 
long  years  of  anguish  since  that  hour,  no  tender 
hand  had  touched  his  brow,  nor  wiped  away 
the  damps  of  a  bitter  sorrow.  Perhaps  the 
tender,  maternal  fingers  of  my  wife  soothed 
his  weary  head  with  the  conviction  that  he  felt 
the  hand  of  his  mother  playing  with  the  long 
hair  of  her  boy  in  the  soft  West  India  morn 
ing.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  natural  relief  of 
expressing  a  pent-up  sorrow. 


142  PRUE  AND  I. 

When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with  the  old 
subdued  tone,  and  the  air  of  quaint  solem 
nity. 

"  These  things  were  matters  of  long,  long 
ago,  and  I  came  to  this  country  soon  after.  I 
brought  with  me,  premature  age,  a  past  of  mel 
ancholy  memories,  and  the  magic  spectacles. 
I  had  become  their  slave.  I  had  nothing  more 
to  fear.  Having  seen  myself,  I  was  compelled 
to  see  others,  properly  to  understand  my  rela 
tions  to  them.  The  lights  that  cheer  the  fu 
ture  of  other  men  had  gone  out  for  me;  my 
eyes  were  those  of  an  exile  turned  backwards 
upon  the  receding  shore,  and  not  forwards  with 
hope  upon  the  ocean. 

"  I  mingled  with  men,  but  with  little  pleas 
ure.  There  are  but  many  varieties  of  a  few 
types.  I  did  not  find  those  I  came  to  clearer- 
sighted  than  those  I  had  left  behind.  I  heard 
men  called  shrewd  and  wise,  and  report  said 
they  were  highly  intelligent  and  successful. 
My  finest  sense  detected  no  aroma  of  purity 
and  principle;  but  I  saw  only  a  fungus  that 
had  fattened  and  spread  in  a  night.  They 
went  to  the  theatres  to  see  actors  upon  the 
stage.  I  went  to  see  actors  in  the  boxes,  so 
consummately  cunning,  that  others  did  not 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.          143 

know  they  were  acting,  and  they  did  not  sus 
pect  it  themselves. 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  it  did  not  make  me 
misanthropical.  My  dear  friends,  do  not  for 
get  that  I  had  seen  myself.  That  made  me 
compassionate,  not  cynical. 

"Of  course,  I  could  not  value  highly  the 
ordinary  standards  of  success  and  excellence. 
When  I  went  to  church  and  saw  a  thin,  blue, 
artificial  flower,  or  a  great  sleepy  cushion,  ex 
pounding  the  beauty  of  holiness  to  pews  full  of 
eagles,  half-eagles,  and  three-pences,  however 
adroitly  concealed  they  might  be  in  broadcloth 
and  boots,  or  saw  an  onion  in  an  Easter  bonnet 
weeping  over  the  sins  of  Magdalen,  I  did  not 
feel  as  they  felt  who  saw  in  all  this,  not  only 
propriety,  but  piety. 

"  Or  when  at  public  meetings  an  eel  stood  up 
on  end,  and  wriggled  and  squirmed  lithely  in 
every  direction,  and  declared  that,  for  his  part, 
he  went  in  for  rainbows  and  hot  water  —  how 
could  I  help  seeing  that  he  was  still  black  and 
loved  a  slimy  pool  ? 

"I  could  not  grow  misanthropical  when  I 
saw  in  the  eyes  of  so  many  who  were  called 
old,  the  gushing  fountains  of  eternal  youth, 
and  the  light  of  an  immortal  dawn,  or  when  I 


144  PKUE  AND  I. 

saw  those  who  were  esteemed  unsuccessful  and 
aimless,  ruling  a  fair  realm  of  peace  and  plenty, 
either  in  their  own  hearts,  or  in  another's  —  a 
realm  and  princely  possession  for  which  they 
had  well  renounced  a  hopeless  search  and  a 
belated  triumph. 

"  I  knew  one  man  who  had  been  for  years  a 
byword  for  having  sought  the  philosopher's 
stone.  But  I  looked  at  him  through  the 
spectacles  and  saw  a  satisfaction  in  concen 
trated  energies  and  a  tenacity  arising  from 
devotion  to  a  noble  dream  which  was  not  ap 
parent  in  the  youths  who  pitied  him  in  the 
aimless  effeminacy  of  clubs,  nor  in  the  clever 
gentlemen  who  cracked  their  thin  jokes  upon 
him  over  a  gossiping  dinner. 

"  And  there  was  your  neighbor  over  the  way, 
who  passes  for  a  woman  who  has  failed  in  her 
career,  because  she  is  an  old  maid.  People 
wag  solemn  heads  of  pity,  and  say  that  she 
made  so  great  a  mistake  in  not  marrying  the 
brilliant  and  famous  man  who  was  for  long 
years  her  suitor.  It  is  clear  that  no  orange 
flower  will  ever  bloom  for  her.  The  young 
people  make  their  tender  romances  about  her 
as  they  watch  her,  and  think  of  her  solitary 
hours  of  bitter  regret  and  wasting  longing, 
never  to  be  satisfied. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         145 

"When  I  first  came  to  town  I  shared  this 
sympathy,  and  pleased  my  imagination  with 
fancying  her  hard  struggle  with  the  conviction 
that  she  had  lost  all  that  made  life  beautiful. 
I  supposed  that  if  I  had  looked  at  her  through 
my  spectacles,  I  should  see  that  it  was  only 
her  radiant  temper  which  so  illuminated  her 
dress,  that  we  did  not  see  it  to  be  heavy 
sables. 

"  But  when,  one  day,  I  did  raise  my  glasses, 
and  glanced  at  her,  I  did  not  see  the  old  maid 
whom  we  all  pitied  for  a  secret  sorrow,  but  a 
woman  whose  nature  was  a  tropic,  in  which 
the  sun  shone,  and  birds  sang,  and  flowers 
bloomed  forever.  There  were  no  regrets,  no 
doubts  and  half  wishes,  but  a  calm  sweetness, 
a  transparent  peace.  I  saAv  her  blush  when 
that  old  lover  passed  by,  or  paused  to  speak  to 
her,  but  it  was  only  the  sign  of  delicate  femi 
nine  consciousness.  She  knew  his  love,  and 
honored  it,  although  she  could  not  understand 
it  nor  return  it.  I  looked  closely  at  her,  and 
I  saw  that  although  all  the  world  had  ex 
claimed  at  her  indifference  to  such  homage, 
and  had  declared  it  was  astonishing  she  should 
lose  so  fine  a  match,  she  would  only  say  simply 
and  quietly :  — 


146  PBUE  AND  I. 

"'If  Shakespeare  loved  me  and  I  did  not 
love  him,  how  could  I  marry  him  ?  ' 

"  Could  I  be  misanthropical  when  I  saw  such 
fidelity,  and  dignity,  and  simplicity  ? 

"You  may  believe  that  I  was  especially 
curious  to  look  at  that  old  lover  of  hers, 
through  my  glasses.  He  was  no  longer  young, 
you  know,  when  I  came,  and  his  fame  and 
fortune  were  secure.  Certainly  I  have  heard 
of  few  men  more  beloved,  and  of  none  more 
worthy  to  be  loved.  He  had  the  easy  manner 
of  a  man  of  the  world,  the  sensitive  grace  of  a 
poet,  and  the  charitable  judgment  of  a  wide 
traveller.  He  was  accounted  the  most  success 
ful  and  most  unspoiled  of  men.  Handsome, 
brilliant,  wise,  tender,  graceful,  accomplished, 
rich,  and  famous,  I  looked  at  him,  without  the 
spectacles,  in  surprise  and  admiration,  and 
wondered  how  your  neighbor  over  the  way  had 
been  so  entirely  untouched  by  his  homage.  I 
watched  their  intercourse  in  society,  I  saw  her 
gay  smile,  her  cordial  greeting ;  I  marked  his 
frank  address,  his  lofty  courtesy.  Their  man 
ner  told  no  tales.  The  eager  world  was  balked, 
and  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles. 

"  I  had  seen  her  already,  and  now  I  saw  him. 
He  lived  only  in  memory,  and  his  memory  was 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.          147 

a  spacious  and  stately  palace.  But  he  did  not 
oftenest  frequent  the  banqueting  hall,  where 
were  endless  hospitality  and  feasting, — nor  did 
he  loiter  much  in  the  reception  rooms,  where  a 
throng  of  new  visitors  was  forever  swarming,  — 
nor  did  he  feed  his  vanity  by  haunting  the 
apartment  in  which  were  stored  the  trophies 
of  his  varied  triumphs,  —  nor  dream  much  in 
the  great  gallery  hung  with  pictures  of  his 
travels. 

"  From  all  these  lofty  halls  of  memory  he 
constantly  escaped  to  a  remote  and  solitary 
chamber,  into  which  no  one  had  ever  pene 
trated.  But  my  fatal  eyes,  behind  the  glasses, 
followed  and  entered  with  him,  and  saw  that 
the  chamber  was  a  chapel.  It  was  dim,  and 
silent,  and  sweet  with  perpetual  incense,  that 
burned  upon  an  altar  before  a  picture  forever 
veiled.  There,  whenever  I  chanced  to  look,  I 
saw  him  kneel  and  pray;  and  there,  by  day 
and  by  night,  a  funeral  hymn  was  chanted. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  will  be  surprised  that 
I  have  been  content  to  remain  a  deputy  book 
keeper.  My  spectacles  regulated  my  ambition, 
and  I  early  learned  that  there  were  better  gods 
than  Plutus.  The  glasses  have  lost  much  of 
their  fascination  now,  and  I  do  not  often  use 


148  PKUE  AND   I. 

them.  But  sometimes  the  desire  is  irresistible. 
Whenever  I  am  greatly  interested,  I  am  com 
pelled  to  take  them  out  and  see  what  it  is  that 
I  admire. 

"And  yet  —  and  yet,"  said  Titbottom,  after 
a  pause,  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  thank  my 
grandfather." 

Prue  had  long  since  laid  away  her  work,  and 
had  heard  every  word  of  the  story.  I  saw  that 
the  dear  woman  had  yet  one  question  to  ask, 
and  had  been  earnestly  hoping  to  hear  some 
thing  that  would  spare  her  the  necessity  of 
asking.  But  Titbottom  had  resumed  his  usual 
tone,  after  the  momentary  excitement,  and 
made  no  further  allusion  to  himself.  We  all 
sat  silently;  Titbottom's  eyes  fastened  mus 
ingly  upon  the  carpet,  Prue  looking  wistfully 
at  him,  and  I  regarding  both. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  our  guest  arose  to 
go.  He  shook  hands  quietly,  made  his  grave 
Spanish  bow  to  Prue,  and,  taking  his  hat,  went 
toward  the  front  door.  Prue  and  I  accompanied 
him.  I  saw  in  her  eyes  that  she  would  ask  her 
question.  And  as  Titbottom  opened  the  door, 
I  heard  the  low  words :  — 

"  And  Preciosa  ?  " 

Titbottom  paused.     He  had  just  opened  the 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.          149 

door,  and  the  moonlight  streamed  over  him  as 
he  stood,  turning  back  to  us. 

"  I  have  seen  her  but  once  since.  It  was  in 
church,  and  she  was  kneeling,  with  her  eyes 
closed,  so  that  she  did  not  see  me.  But  I 
rubbed  the  glasses  well,  and  looked  at  her,  and 
saw  a  white  lily,  whose  stem  was  broken,  but 
which  was  fresh,  and  luminous,  and  fragrant 
still." 

"  That  was  a  miracle,"  interrupted  Prue. 

"  Madam,  it  was  a  miracle,"  replied  Titbot- 
tom,  "and  for  that  one  sight  I  am  devoutly 
grateful  for  my  grandfather's  gift.  I  saw 
that,  although  a  flower  may  have  lost  its  hold 
upon  earthly  moisture,  it  may  still  bloom  as 
sweetly,  fed  by  the  dews  of  heaven." 

The  door  closed,  and  he  was  gone.  But  as 
Prue  put  her  arm  in  mine,  and  we  went  up 
stairs  together,  she  whispered  in  my  ear :  — 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  you  don't  wear  spec 
tacles." 


A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING 
DUTCHMAN. 

"  When  I  sailed :  when  I  sailed." 

Ballad  of  Robert  Kidd. 


A    CRUISE   IN    THE   FLYING 
DUTCHMAN. 

*'  When  I  sailed :  when  I  sailed." 

Ballad  of  Robert  Kidd. 

WITH  the  opening  of  spring  my  heart  opens. 
My  fancy  expands  with  the  flowers,  and,  as  I 
walk  down  town  in  the  May  morning,  toward  the 
dingy  counting-room,  and  the  old  routine,  you 
would  hardly  believe  that  I  would  not  change 
my  feelings  for  those  of  the  French  Barber- 
Poet  Jasmin,  who  goes,  merrily  singing,  to  his 
shaving  and  hair  cutting. 

The  first  warm  day  puts  the  whole  winter  to 
flight.  It  stands  in  front  of  the  summer  like  a 
young  warrior  before  his  host,  and,  single- 
handed,  defies  and  destroys  its  remorseless 
enemy. 

I  throw  up  the  chamber-window,  to  breathe 
the  earliest  breath  of  summer. 

"  The  brave  young  David  has  hit  old  Goliath 
square  in  the  forehead  this  morning,"  I  say  to 
153 


154  PRTJE   AND  I. 

Prue,  as  I  lean  out,  and  bathe  in  the  soft  sun 
shine. 

My  wife  is  tying  on  her  cap  at  the  glass,  and, 
not  quite  disentangled  from  her  dreams,  thinks 
I  am  speaking  of  a  street-brawl,  and  replies 
that  I  had  better  take  care  of  my  own  head. 

"  Since  you  have  charge  of  my  heart,  I  sup 
pose,"  I  answer  gayly,  turning  round  to  make 
her  one  of  Titbottom's  bows. 

"But  seriously,  Prue,  how  is  it  about  my 
summer  wardrobe  ?  " 

Prue  smiles,  and  tells  me  we  shall  have  two 
months  of  winter  yet,  and  I  had  better  stop 
and  order  some  more  coal  as  I  go  down  town. 

"Winter  — coal!" 

Then  I  step  back,  and  taking  her  by  the  arm, 
lead  her  to  the  window.  I  throw  it  open  even 
wider  than  before.  The  sunlight  streams  on 
the  great  church-towers  opposite,  and  the  trees 
in  the  neighboring  square  glisten,  and  wave 
their  boughs  gently,  as  if  they  would  burst 
into  leaf  before  dinner.  Cages  are  hung  at  the 
open  chamber-windows  in  the  street,  and  the 
birds,  touched  into  song  by  the  sun,  make 
Memnon  true.  Prue's  purple  and  white  hya 
cinths  are  in  full  blossom,  and  perfume  the 
warm  air,  so  that  the  canaries  and  the  mocking 


CRUISE  IN  THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      155 

birds  are  no  longer  aliens  in  the  city  streets, 
but  are  once  more  swinging  in  their  spicy 
native  groves. 

A  soft  wind  blows  upon  us  as  we  stand,  lis 
tening  and  looking.  Cuba  and  the  Tropics  are 
in  the  air.  The  drowsy  tune  of  a  hand-organ 
rises  from  the  square,  and  Italy  comes  singing 
in  upon  the  sound.  My  triumphant  eyes  meet 
Prue's.  They  are  full  of  sweetness  and  spring. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  summer  ward 
robe  now  ?  "  I  ask,  and  we  go  down  to  break- ' 
fast. 

But  the  air  has  magic  in  it,  and  I  do  not 
cease  to  dream.  If  I  meet  Charles,  who  is 
bound  for  Alabama,  or  John,  who  sails  for 
Savannah,  with  a  trunk  full  of  white  jackets, 
I  do  not  say  to  them,  as  their  other  friends 
say,— 

"  Happy  travellers,  who  cut  March  and  April 
out  of  the  dismal  year ! " 

I  do  not  envy  them.  They  will  be  sea-sick 
on  the  way.  The  southern  winds  will  blow  all 
the  water  out  of  the  rivers,  and,  desolately 
stranded  upon  mud,  they  will  relieve  the 
tedium  of  the  interval  by  tying  with  large  ropes 
a  young  gentleman  raving  with  delirium  tre- 
mens.  They  will  hurry  along,  appalled  by 


156  PRUE  AND  I. 

forests  blazing  in  the  windy  night ;  and,  housed 
in  a  bad  inn,  they  will  find  themselves  anxiously 
asking,  "Are  the  cars  punctual  in  leaving  ?  "  — 
grimly  sure  that  impatient  travellers  find  all 
conveyances  too  slow.  The  travellers  are  very 
warm,  indeed,  even  in  March  and  April,  —  but 
Prue  doubts  if  it  is  altogether  the  effect  of  the 
southern  climate. 

Why  should  they  go  to  the  South  ?  If  they 
only  wait  a  little,  the  South  will  come  to  them. 
Savannah  arrives  in  April ;  Florida  in  May ; 
Cuba  and  the  Gulf  come  in  with  June,  and  the 
full  splendor  of  the  Tropics  burns  through  July 
and  August.  Sitting  upon  the  earth,  do  we  not 
glide  by  all  the  constellations,  all  the  awful 
stars  ?  Does  not  the  flash  of  Orion's  cimeter 
dazzle  as  we  pass  ?  Do  we  not  hear,  as  we  gaze 
in  hushed  midnights,  the  music  of  the  Lyre ; 
are  we  not  throned  with  Cassiopea ;  do  we  not 
play  with  the  tangles  of  Berenice's  hair,  as  we 
sail,  as  we  sail  ? 

When  Christopher  told  me  that  he  was  going 
to  Italy,  I  went  into  Bourne's  conservatory,  saw 
a  magnolia,  and  so  reached  Italy  before  him. 
Can  Christopher  bring  Italy  home  ?  But  I 
brought  to  Prue  a  branch  of  magnolia  blossoms, 
with  Mr.  Bourne's  kindest  regards,  and  she  put 


CRUISE  IN  THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      157 

them  upon  her  table,  and  our  little  house 
smelled  of  Italy  for  a  week  afterward.  The 
incident  developed  Prue's  Italian  tastes,  which 
I  had  not  suspected  to  be  so  strong.  I  found 
her  looking  very  often  at  the  magnolias ;  even 
holding  them  in  her  hand,  and  standing  before 
the  table  with  a  pensive  air.  I  suppose  she 
was  thinking  of  Beatrice  Cenci,  or  of  Tasso  and 
Leonora,  or  of  the  wife  of  Marino  Faliero,  or  of 
some  other  of  those  sad  old  Italian  tales  of  love 
and  woe.  So  easily  Prue  went  to  Italy ! 

Thus  the  spring  comes  in  my  heart  as  well 
as  in  the  air,  and  leaps  along  my  veins  as  well 
as  through  the  trees.  I  immediately  travel. 
An  orange  takes  me  to  Sorrento,  and  roses, 
when  they  blow,  to  Peestum.  The  camelias  in 
Aurelia's  hair  bring  Brazil  into  the  happy  rooms 
she  treads,  and  she  takes  me  to  South  America 
as  she  goes  to  dinner.  The  pearls  upon  her 
neck  make  me  free  of  the  Persian  gulf.  Upon 
her  shawl,  like  the  Arabian  prince  upon  his 
carpet,  I  am  transported  to  the  vales  of  Cash 
mere  ;  and  thus,  as  I  daily  walk  in  the  bright 
spring  days,  I  go  round  the  world. 

But  the  season  wakes  a  finer  longing,  a  de 
sire  that  could  only  be  satisfied  if  the  pavil 
ions  of  the  clouds  were  real,  and  I  could  stroll 


158  PRUE   AND    I. 

among  the  towering  splendors  of  a  sultry 
spring  evening.  Ah !  if  I  could  leap  those 
flaming  battlements  that  glow  along  the  west 
—  if  I  could  tread  those  cool,  dewy,  serene 
isles  of  sunset,  and  sink  with  them  in  the  sea 
of  stars. 

I  say  so  to  Prue,  and  my  wife  smiles. 

"  But  why  is  it  so  impossible,"  I  ask,  "  if  you 
go  to  Italy  upon  a  magnolia  branch  ?  " 

The  smile  fades  from  her  eyes. 

"I  went  a  shorter  voyage  than  that,"  she 
answered ;  "  it  was  only  to  Mr.  Bourne's." 

I  walked  slowly  out  of  the  house,  and  over 
took  Titbottom  as  I  went.  He  smiled  gravely 
as  he  greeted  me,  and  said :  — 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  invite  you  to  join  a 
little  pleasure  party." 

"  Where  is  it  going  ?  " 

"  Oh !  anywhere,"  answered  Titbottom. 

"And  how?" 

"  Oh !  anyhow,"  he  replied. 

"  You  mean  that  everybody  is  to  go  wherever 
he  pleases,  and  in  the  way  he  best  can.  My 
dear  Titbottom,  I  have  long  belonged  to  that 
pleasure  party,  although  I  never  heard  it  called 
by  so  pleasant  a  name  before." 

My  companion  said  only  :  — 


CRUISE   IN    THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      159 

"  If  you  would  like  to  join,  I  will  introduce 
you  to  the  party.  I  cannot  go,  but  they  are  all 
on  board." 

I  answered  nothing ;  but  Titbottom  drew  me 
along.  We  took  a  boat  and  put  off  to  the  most 
extraordinary  craft  I  had  ever  seen.  We  ap 
proached  her  stern,  and,  as  I  curiously  looked 
at  it,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  an  old  pic 
ture  that  hung  in  my  father's  house.  It  was  of 
the  Flemish  school,  and  represented  the  rear 
view  of  the  vrouw  of  a  burgomaster  going  to 
market.  The  wide  yards  were  stretched  like 
elbows,  and  even  the  studding-sails  were 
spread.  The  hull  was  seared  and  blistered, 
and,  in  the  tops,  I  saw  what  I  supposed  to  be 
strings  of  turnips  or  cabbages,  little  round 
masses,  with  tufted  crests ;  but  Titbottom 
assured  me  they  were  sailors. 

We  rowed  hard,  but  came  no  nearer  the 
vessel. 

"  She  is  going  with  the  tide  and  wind,"  said 
I ;  "  we  shall  never  catch  her." 

My  companion  said  nothing. 

"  But  why  have  they  set  the  studding-sails  ?  " 
asked  I. 

"  She  never  takes  in  any  sails,"  answered 
Titbottom. 


160  PRTJE  AND  I. 

"  The  more  fool  she,"  thought  I,  a  little  im 
patiently,  angry  at  not  getting  nearer  to  the 
vessel.  But  I  did  not  say  it  aloud.  I  would 
as  soon  have  said  it  to  Prue  as  to  Titbottom. 
The  truth  is,  I  began  to  feel  a  little  ill,  from 
the  motion  of  the  boat,  and  remembered,  with 
a  shade  of  regret,  Prue  and  peppermint.  If 
wives  could  only  keep  their  husbands  a  little 
nauseated,  I  am  confident  they  might  be  very 
sure  of  their  constancy. 

But,  somehow,  the  strange  ship  was  gained, 
and  I  found  myself  among  as  singular  a  com 
pany  as  I  have  ever  seen.  There  were  men  of 
every  country,  and  costumes  of  all  kinds. 
There  was  an  indescribable  mistiness  in  the 
air,  or  a  premature  twilight,  in  which  all  the 
figures  looked  ghostly  and  unreal.  The  ship 
was  of  a  model  such  as  I  had  never  seen,  and 
the  rigging  had  a  musty  odor,  so  that  the  whole 
craft  smelled  like  a  ship-chandler's  shop 
grown  mouldy.  The  figures  glided  rather  than 
walked  about,  and  I  perceived  a  strong  smell  of 
cabbage  issuing  from  the  hold. 

But  the  most  extraordinary  thing  of  all  was 
the  sense  of  resistless  motion  which  possessed 
my  mind  the  moment  my  foot  struck  the  deck. 
I  could  have  sworn  we  were  dashing  through 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      161 

the  water  at  the  rate  of  twenty  knots  an  hour. 
(Prue  has  a  great,  but  a  little  ignorant,  admira 
tion  of  my  technical  knowledge  of  nautical 
affairs  and  phrases.)  I  looked  aloft  and  saw 
the  sails  taut  with  a  stiff  breeze,  and  I  heard 
a  faint  whistling  of  the  wind  in  the  rigging, 
but  very  faint,  and  rather,  it  seemed  to  me,  as 
if  it  came  from  the  creak  of  cordage  in  the 
ships  of  Crusaders ;  or  of  quaint  old  craft  upon 
the  Spanish  main,  echoing  through  remote  years 
—  so  far  away  it  sounded. 

Yet  I  heard  no  orders  given  ;  I  saw  no  sailors 
running  aloft,  and  only  one  figure  crouching 
over  the  wheel.  He  was  lost  behind  his  great 
beard  as  behind  a  snow-drift.  But  the  startling 
speed  with  which  we  scudded  along  did  not  lift 
a  solitary  hair  of  that  beard,  nor  did  the  old 
and  withered  face  of  the  pilot  betray  any  curi 
osity  or  interest  as  to  what  breakers,  or  reefs, 
or  pitiless  shores  might  be  lying  in  ambush  to 
destroy  us. 

Still  on  we  swept ;  and  as  the  traveller  in  a 
night-train  knows  that  he  is  passing  green  fields, 
and  pleasant  gardens,  and  winding  streams 
fringed  with  flowers,  and  is  now  gliding  through 
tilnnels  or  darting  along  the  base  of  fearful 
cliffs,  so  I  was  conscious  that  we  were  pressing 


162  PRTJE    AND    I. 

through  various  climates  and  by  romantic  shores. 
In  vain  I  peered  into  the  gray  twilight  mist  that 
folded  all.  I  could  only  see  the  vague  figures 
that  grew  and  faded  upon  the  haze,  as  my  eye 
fell  upon  them,  like  the  intermittent  characters 
of  sympathetic  ink  when  heat  touches  them. 

Now,  it  was  a  belt  of  warm,  odorous  air  in 
which  we  sailed,  and  then  cold  as  the  breath  of 
a  polar  ocean.  The  perfume  of  new-mown  hay 
and  the  breath  of  roses  came  mingled  with  the 
distant  music  of  bells,  and  the  twittering  song 
of  birds,  and  a  low  surf-like  sound  of  the  wind 
in  summer  woods.  There  were  all  sounds  of 
pastoral  beauty,  of  a  tranquil  landscape  such  as 
Prue  loves  —  and  which  shall  be  painted  as  the 
background  of  her  portrait  whenever  she  sits 
to  any  of  my  many  artist  friends  —  and  that 
pastoral  beauty  shall  be  called  England;  I 
strained  my  eyes  into  the  cruel  mist  that  held 
all  that  music  and  all  that  suggested  beauty, 
but  I  could  see  nothing.  It  was  so  sweet  that 
I  scarcely  knew  if  I  cared  to  see.  The  very 
thought  of  it  charmed  my  senses  and  satisfied 
my  heart.  I  smelled  and  heard  the  landscape 
that  I  could  not  see. 

Then  the  pungent,  penetrating  fragrance  of 
blossoming  vineyards  was  wafted  across  the  air; 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.        163 

the  flowery  richness  of  orange  groves,  and  the 
sacred  odor  of  crushed  bay  leaves,  such  as  is 
pressed  from  them  when  they  are  strewn  upon 
the  flat  pavement  of  the  streets  of  Florence  and 
gorgeous  priestly  processions  tread  them  under 
foot.  A  steam  of  incense  filled  the  air.  I 
smelled  Italy  —  as  in  the  magnolia  from 
Bourne's  garden  —  and,  even  while  my  heart 
leaped  with  the  consciousness,  the  odor  passed, 
and  a  stretch  of  burning  silence  succeeded. 

It  was  an  oppressive  zone  of  heat  —  oppres 
sive  not  only  from  its  silence,  but  from  the 
sense  of  awful,  antique  forms,  whether  of  art  or 
nature,  that  were  sitting,  closely  veiled,  in  that 
mysterious  obscurity.  I  shuddered  as  I  felt 
that  if  my  eyes  could  pierce  that  mist,  or  if  it 
should  lift  and  roll  away,  I  should  see  upon  a 
silent  shore  low  ranges  of  lonely  hills,  or  mystic 
figures  and  huge  temples  trampled  out  of  his 
tory  by  time. 

This,  too,  we  left.  There  was  a  rustling  of 
distant  palms,  the  indistinct  roar  of  beasts,  and 
the  hiss  of  serpents.  Then  all  was  still  again. 
Only  at  times  the  remote  sigh  of  the  weary  sea, 
moaning  around  desolate  isles  undiscovered ; 
and  the  howl  of  winds  that  had  never  wafted 
human  voices,  but  had  rung  endless  changes 


164  PKUE  AND   I. 

upon  the  sound  of  dashing  waters,  made  the 
voyage  more  appalling  and  the  figures  around 
me  more  fearful. 

As  the  ship  plunged  on  through  all  the  varying 
zones,  as  climate  and  country  drifted  behind 
us,  unseen  in  the  gray  mist,  but  each,  in  turn, 
making  that  quaint  craft  England  or  Italy, 
Africa  and  the  Southern  seas,  I  ventured  to 
steal  a  glance  at  the  motley  crew,  to  see  what 
impression  this  wild  career  produced  upon  them. 

They  sat  about  the  deck  in  a  hundred  list 
less  postures.  Some  leaned  idly  over  the  bul 
warks,  and  looked  wistfully  away  from  the 
ship,  as  if  they  fancied  they  saw  all  that  I 
inferred,  but  could  not  see.  As  the  perfume, 
and  sound,  and  climate  changed,  I  could  see 
many  a  longing  eye  sadden  and  grow  moist, 
and  as  the  chime  of  bells  echoed  distinctly, 
like  the  airy  syllables  of  names,  and,  as  it  were, 
made  pictures  in  music  upon  the  minds  of  those 
quaint  mariners  —  then  dry  lips  moved,  per 
haps  to  name  a  name,  perhaps  to  breathe  a 
prayer.  Others  sat  upon  the  deck,  vacantly 
smoking  pipes  that  required  no  refilling,  but  had 
an  immortality  of  weed  and  fire.  The  more  they 
smoked  the  more  mysterious  they  became.  The 
smoke  made  the  mist  around  them  the  more 


CRUISE  IN  THE  PLYING   DUTCHMAN.        165 

impenetrable,  and  I  could  clearly  see  that  those 
distant  sounds  gradually  grew  more  distant, 
and,  by  some  of  the  most  desperate  and  con 
stant  smokers,  were  heard  no  more.  The  faces 
of  such  had  an  apathy  which,  had  it  been 
human,  would  have  been  despair. 

Others  stood  staring  up  into  the  rigging,  as 
if  calculating  when  the  sails  must  needs  be 
rent  and  the  voyage  end.  But  there  was  no 
hope  in  their  eyes,  only  a  bitter  longing.  Some 
paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  deck.  They 
had  evidently  been  walking  a  long,  long  time. 
At  intervals  they,  too,  threw  a  searching  glance 
into  the  mist  that  enveloped  the  ship,  and  up 
into  the  sails  and  rigging  that  stretched  over 
them  in  hopeless  strength  and  order. 

One  of  the  promenaders  I  especially  noticed. 
His  beard  was  long  and  snowy,  like  that  of  the 
pilot.  He  had  a  staff  in  his  hand,  and  his 
movement  was  very  rapid.  His  body  swung 
forward,  as  if  to  avoid  something,  and  his 
glance  half  turned  back  over  his  shoulder,  ap 
prehensively,  as  if  he  were  threatened  from 
behind.  The  head  and  the  whole  figure  were 
bowed  as  if  under  a  burden,  although  I  could 
not  see  that  he  had  anything  upon  his  shoul 
ders  j  and  his  gait  was  not  that  of  a  man  who 


166  PRUE  AND   I. 

is  walking  off  the  ennui  of  a  voyage,  but  rather 
of  a  criminal  flying,  or  of  a  startled  traveller 
pursued. 

As  he  came  nearer  to  me  in  his  walk,  I  saw 
that  his  features  were  strongly  Hebrew,  and 
there  was  an  air  of  the  proudest  dignity,  fear 
fully  abased,  in  his  mien  and  expression.  It 
was  more  than  the  dignity  of  an  individual.  I 
could  have  believed  that  the  pride  of  a  race  was 
humbled  in  his  person. 

His  agile  eye  presently  fastened  itself  upon 
me,  as  a  stranger.  He  came  nearer  and  nearer 
to  me,  as  he  paced  rapidly  to  and  fro,  and  was 
evidently  several  times  on  the  point  of  address 
ing  me,  but,  looking  over  his  shoulder  appre 
hensively,  he  passed  on.  At  length,  with  a 
great  effort,  he  paused  for  an  instant,  and 
invited  me  to  join  him  in  his  walk.  Before 
the  invitation  was  fairly  uttered,  he  was  in 
motion  again.  I  followed,  but  I  could  not 
overtake  him.  He  kept  just  before  me,  and 
turned  occasionally  with  an  air  of  terror,  as 
if  he  fancied  I  were  dogging  him ;  then  glided 
on  more  rapidly. 

His  face  was  by  no  means  agreeable,  but  it 
had  an  inexplicable  fascination,  as  if  it  had 
been  turned  upon  what  no  other  mortal  eyes 


CRUISE   IN   THE  FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      167 

had  ever  seen.  Yet  I  could  hardly  tell  whether 
it  were,  probably,  an  object  of  supreme  beauty 
or  of  terror.  He  looked  at  everything  as  if  he 
hoped  its  impression  might  obliterate  some 
anterior  and  awful  one ;  and  I  was  gradually 
possessed  with  the  unpleasant  idea  that  his 
eyes  were  never  closed  —  that,  in  fact,  he  never 
slept. 

Suddenly,  fixing  me  with  his  unnatural,  wake 
ful  glare,  he  whispered  something  which  I 
could  not  understand,  and  then  darted  forward 
even  more  rapidly,  as  if  he  dreaded  that,  in 
merely  speaking,  he  had  lost  time. 

Still  the  ship  drove  on,  and  I  walked  hur 
riedly  along  the  deck,  just  behind  my  com 
panion.  But  our  speed  and  that  of  the  ship 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  mouldy  smell 
of  old  rigging,  and  the  listless  and  lazy  groups 
smoking  and  leaning  on  the  bulwarks.  The 
seasons,  in  endless  succession  and  iteration, 
passed  over  the  ship.  The  twilight  was  sum 
mer  haze  at  the  stern,  while  it  was  the  fiercest 
winter  mist  at  the  bows.  But  as  a  tropical 
breath,  like  the  warmth  of  a  Syrian  day,  sud 
denly  touched  the  brow  of  my  companion,  he 
sighed,  and  I  could  not  help  saying :  — 

"  You  must  be  tired." 


168  PRUE  AND  I. 

He  only  shook  his  head  and  quickened  his 
pace.  But  now  that  I  had  once  spoken,  it  was 
not  so  difficult  to  speak,  and  I  asked  him  why 
he  did  not  stop  and  rest. 

He  turned  for  a  moment,  and  a  mournful 
sweetness  shone  in  his  dark  eyes  and  haggard, 
swarthy  face.  It  played  flittingly  around  that 
strange  look  of  ruined  human  dignity,  like  a 
wan  beam  of  late  sunset  about  a  crumbling  and 
forgotten  temple.  He  put  his  hand  hurriedly 
to  his  forehead,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  remem 
ber —  like  a  lunatic  who,  having  heard  only 
the  wrangle  of  fiends  in  his  delirium,  suddenly, 
in  a  conscious  moment,  perceives  the  familiar 
voice  of  love.  But  who  could  this  be,  to 
whom  mere  human  sympathy  was  so  start- 
lingly  sweet  ? 

Still  moving,  he  whispered  with  a  woful  sad 
ness,  "I  want  to  stop,  but  I  cannot.  If  I 
could  only  stop  long  enough  to  leap  over  the 
bulwarks ! " 

Then  he  sighed  long  and  deeply,  and  added, 
"  But  I  should  not  drown." 

So  much  had  my  interest  been  excited  by 
his  face  and  movement,  that  I  had  not  ob 
served  the  costume  of  this  strange  being.  He 
wore  a  black  hat  upon  his  head.  It  was  not 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      169 

only  black,  but  it  was  shiny.  Even  in  the 
midst  of  this  wonderful  scene,  I  could  observe 
that  it  had  the  artificial  newness  of  a  second 
hand  hat ;  and,  at  the  same  moment,  I  was  dis 
gusted  by  the  odor  of  old  clothes  —  very  old 
clothes,  indeed.  The  mist  and  my  sympathy 
had  prevented  my  seeing  before  what  a  singu 
lar  garb  the  figure  wore.  It  was  all  second 
hand  and  carefully  ironed,  but  the  garments 
were  obviously  collected  from  every  part  of 
the  civilized  globe.  Good  heavens !  as  I  looked 
at  the  coat,  I  had  a  strange  sensation.  I  was 
sure  that  I  had  once  worn  that  coat.  It  was 
my  wedding  surtout  —  long  in  the  skirts  — 
which  Prue  had  told  me,  years  and  years  be 
fore,  she  had  given  away  to  the  neediest  Jew- 
beggar  she  had  ever  seen. 

The  spectral  figure  dwindled  in  my  fancy  — 
the  features  lost  their  antique  grandeur,  and 
the  restless  eye  ceased  to  be  sublime  from  im 
mortal  sleeplessness,  and  became  only  lively 
with  mean  cunning.  The  apparition  was  fear 
fully  grotesque,  but  the  driving  ship  and  the 
mysterious  company  gradually  restored  its 
tragic  interest.  I  stopped  and  leaned  against 
the  side,  and  heard  the  rippling  water  that  I 
could  not  see,  and  flitting  through  the  mist, 


170  PRTJE   AND    I. 

with  anxious  speed,  the  figure  held  its  way. 
What  was  he  flying?  What  conscience  with 
relentless  sting  pricked  this  victim  on? 

He  came  again  nearer  and  nearer  to  me  in 
his  walk.  I  recoiled  with  disgust,  this  time, 
no  less  than  terror.  But  he  seemed  resolved 
to  speak,  and,  finally,  each  time,  as  he  passed 
me,  he  asked  single  questions,  as  a  ship  which 
fires  whenever  it  can  bring  a  gun  to  bear. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  to  what  port  we  are  bound  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied ;  "  but  how  came  you  to  take 
passage  without  inquiry  ?  To  me  it  makes  lit 
tle  difference."  „ 

"  Nor  do  I  care,"  he  answered,  when  he  next 
came  near  enough ;  "  I  have  already  been  there." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  I. 

"Wherever  we  are  going,"  he  replied.  "I 
have  been  there  a  great  many  times,  and,  oh ! 
I  am  very  tired  of  it." 

"But  why  are  you  here  at  all,  then;  and 
why  don't  you  stop  ?  " 

There  was  a  singular  mixture  of  a  hundred 
conflicting  emotions  in  his  face,  as  I  spoke. 
The  representative  grandeur  of  a  race,  which 
he  sometimes  showed  in  his  look,  faded  into  a 
glance  of  hopeless  and  puny  despair.  His  eyes 
looked  at  me  curiously,  his  chest  heaved,  and 


CRUISE   IN  THE   FLYIXG   DUTCHMAN.      171 

there  was  clearly  a  struggle  in  his  mind,  be 
tween  some  lofty  and  mean  desire.  At  times, 
I  saw  only  the  austere  suffering  of  ages  in  his 
strongly  carved  features,  and  again  I  could  see 
nothing  but  the  second-hand  black  hat  above 
them.  He  rubbed  his  forehead  with  his  skinny 
hand;  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  as  if  cal 
culating  whether  he  had  time  to  speak  to  me ; 
and  then,  as  a  splendid  defiance  flashed  from 
his  piercing  eyes,  so  that  I  know  how  Milton's 
Satan  looked,  he  said  bitterly,  and  with  hope 
less  sorrow,  that  no  mortal  voice  ever  knew 
before :  — 

"  I  cannot  stop :  my  woe  is  infinite,  like  my 
sin ! "  —  and  he  passed  into  the  mist. 

But,  in  a  few  moments,  he  reappeared.  I 
could  now  see  only  the  hat,  which  sank  more 
and  more  over  his  face,  until  it  covered  it  en 
tirely  ;  and  I  heard  a  querulous  voice,  which 
seemed  to  be  quarrelling  with  itself,  for  saying 
what  it  was  compelled  to  say,  so  that  the  words 
were  even  more  appalling  than  what  it  had 
said  before :  — 

"OldcloM  oldclo'!" 

I  gazed  at  the  disappearing  figure,  in  speech 
less  amazement,  and  was  still  looking,  when  I 
was  tapped  upon  the  shoulder,  and,  turning 


172  PRTJE  AND  I. 

round,  saw  a  German  cavalry  officer,  with  a 
heavy  mustache,  and  a  dog-whistle  in  his 
hand. 

"Most  extraordinary  man,  your  friend  yon 
der,"  said  the  officer;  "I  don't  remember  to 
have  seen  him  in  Turkey,  and  yet  I  recognize 
upon  his  feet  the  boots  that  I  wore  in  the  great 
Russian  cavalry  charge,  where  I  individually 
rode  down  five  hundred  and  thirty  Turks,  slew 
seven  hundred,  at  a  moderate  computation,  by 
the  mere  force  of  my  rush,  and,  taking  the 
seven  insurmountable  walls  of  Constantinople 
at  one  clean  flying  leap,  rode  straight  into  the 
seraglio,  and,  dropping  the  bridle,  cut  the  Sul 
tan's  throat  with  my  bridle-hand,  kissed  the 
other  to  the  ladies  of  the  hareem,  and  was  back 
again  within  our  lines  and  taking  a  glass  of 
wine  with  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke  Gener 
alissimo  before  he  knew  that  I  had  mounted. 
Oddly  enough,  your  old  friend  is  now  sporting 
the  identical  boots  I  wore  on  that  occasion." 

The  cavalry  officer  coolly  curled  his  mus 
tache  with  his  fingers.  I  looked  at  him  in 
silence. 

"Speaking  of  boots,"  he  resumed,  "I  don't 
remember  to  have  told  you  of  that  little  inci 
dent  of  the  Princess  of  the  Crimea's  diamonds. 


CRUISE  IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      173 

It  was  slight,  but  curious.  I  was  dining  one 
day  with  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea,  who 
always  had  a  cover  laid  for  me  at  his  table, 
when  he  said,  in  great  perplexity,  '  Baron,  my 
boy,  I  am  in  straits.  The  Shah  of  Persia  has 
just  sent  me  word  that  he  has  presented  me 
with  two  thousand  pearl-of-Oman  necklaces, 
and  I  don't  know  how  to  get  them  over,  the 
duties  are  so  heavy.'  '  Nothing  easier,'  replied 
I ;  '  I'll  bring  them  in  my  boots.'  '  Nonsense  ! ' 
said  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea.  '  Nonsense ! 
yourself,'  replied  I,  sportively :  for  the  Emperor 
of  the  Crimea  always  gives  me  my  joke ;  and 
so  after  dinner  I  went  over  to  Persia.  The 
thing  was  easily  enough  done.  I  ordered  a 
hundred  thousand  pairs  of  boots  or  so,  filled 
them  with  the  pearls;  said  at  the  Custom 
house  that  they  were  part  of  my  private  ward 
robe  and  I  had  left  the  blocks  in  to  keep 
them  stretched,  for  I  was  particular  about  my 
bunions.  The  officers  bowed,  and  said  that 
their  own  feet  were  tender,  upon  which  I  jok 
ingly  remarked  that  I  wished  their  consciences 
were,  and  so  in  the  pleasantest  manner  possible 
the  pearl-of-Oman  necklaces  were  bowed  out  of 
Persia,  and  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea  gave  me 
three  thousand  of  them  as  my  share.  It  was 


174  PBUB   AND  I. 

no  trouble.  It  was  only  ordering  the  boots,  and 
whistling  to  the  infernal  rascals  of  Persian 
shoemakers  to  hang  for  their  pay." 

I  could  reply  nothing  to  my  new  acquaint 
ance,  but  I  treasured  his  stories  to  tell  to  Prue, 
and  at  length  summoned  courage  to  ask  him 
why  he  had  taken  passage. 

"  Pure  fun,"  answered  he,  "nothing  else  under 
the  sun.  You  see,  it  happened  in  this  way :  — 
I  was  sitting  quietly  and  swinging  in  a  cedar 
of  Lebanon,  on  the  very  summit  of  that  moun 
tain,  when  suddenly,  feeling  a  little  warm,  I 
took  a  brisk  dive  into  the  Mediterranean.  Now 
I  was  careless,  and  got  going  obliquely,  and 
with  the  force  of  such  a  dive  I  could  not  come 
up  near  Sicily,  as  I  had  intended,  but  I  went 
clean  under  Africa,  and  came  out  at  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  and  as  Fortune  would  have  it, 
just  as  this  good  ship  was  passing.  So  I  sprang 
over  the  side,  and  offered  the  crew  to  treat  all 
round  if  they  would  tell  me  where  I  started 
from.  But  I  suppose  they  had  just  been  piped 
to  grog,  for  not  a  man  stirred,  except  your 
friend  yonder,  and  he  only  kept  on  stirring." 

"  Are  you  going  far  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  cavalry  officer  looked  a  little  disturbed. 
"I  cannot  precisely  tell,"  answered  he;  "in 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.       175 

fact,  I  wish  I  could;"  and  he  glanced  round 
nervously  at  the  strange  company. 

"If  you  should  come  our  way,  Prue  and  I 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  I,  "and  I 
can  promise  you  a  warm  welcome  from  the 
children." 

"Many  thanks,"  said  the  officer,  —  and  handed 
me  his  card,  upon  which  I  read,  Le  Baron 
Munchausen. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  a  low  voice  at  my 
side ;  and,  turning,  I  saw  one  of  the  most  con 
stant  smokers  —  a  very  old  man  —  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  can  you  tell  me  where  I  came 
from  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot,"  answered  I,  as 
I  surveyed  a  man  with  a  very  bewildered  and 
wrinkled  face,  who  seemed  to  be  intently  look 
ing  for  something. 

"  Nor  where  I  am  going  ?  " 

I  replied  that  it  was  equally  impossible.  He 
mused  a  few  moments,  and  then  said  slowly: 
"  Do  you  know,  it  is  a  very  strange  thing  that 
I  have  not  found  anybody  who  can  answer  me 
either  of  those  questions.  And  yet  I  must  have 
come  from  somewhere,"  said  he,  speculatively 
—  "  yes,  and  I  must  be  going  somewhere,  and  I 
should  really  like  to  know  something  about  it." 


176  PRUE  AND   I. 

"  I  observe,"  said  I,  "  that  you  smoke  a  good 
deal,  and  perhaps  you  find  tobacco  clouds  your 
brain  a  little." 

"  Smoke !  smoke ! "  repeated  he,  sadly,  dwell 
ing  upon  the  words ;  "  why,  it  all  seems  smoke 
to  me ; "  and  he  looked  wistfully  around  the 
deck,  and  I  felt  quite  ready  to  agree  with 
him. 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  are  here  for,"  inquired 
I;  "perhaps  your  health,  or  business  of  some 
kind;  although  I  was  told  it  was  a  pleasure 
party  ?  " 

"That's  just  it,"  said  he;  "if  I  only  knew 
where  we  were  going,  I  might  be  able  to  say 
something  about  it.  But  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  home  as  fast  as  I  can,"  replied  I, 
warmly,  for  I  began  to  be  very  uncomfortable. 
The  old  man's  eyes  half  closed,  and  his  mind 
seemed  to  have  struck  a  scent. 

"  Isn't  that  where  I  was  going  ?  I  believe  it 
is ;  I  wish  I  knew ;  I  think  that's  what  it  is 
called.  Where  is  home  ?  " 

And  the  old  man  puffed  a  prodigious  cloud 
of  smoke,  in  which  he  was  quite  lost. 

"It  is  certainly  very  smoky,"  said  he.  "I 
came  on  board  this  ship  to  go  to  —  in  fact,  I 
meant,  as  I  was  saying,  I  took  passage  for  — ." 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.       177 

He  smoked  silently.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
where  did  you  say  I  was  going  ?" 

Out  of  the  mist  where  he  had  been  leaning 
over  the  side,  and  gazing  earnestly  into  the 
surrounding  obscurity,  now  came  a  pale  young 
man,  and  put  his  arm  in  mine. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  "  that  you  have  rather  a 
general  acquaintance,  and,  as  you  know  many 
persons,  perhaps  you  know  many  things.  I  am 
young,  you  see,  but  I  am  a  great  traveller.  I 
have  been  all  over  the  world,  and  in  all  kinds 
of  conveyances;  but,"  he  continued  nervously, 
starting  continually,  and  looking  around,  "  I 
haven't  yet  got  abroad." 

"Not  got  abroad,  and  yet  you  have  been 
everywhere?  " 

"  Oh !  yes ;  I  know,"  he  replied  hurriedly ; 
"  but  I  mean  that  I  haven't  yet  got  away.  I 
travel  constantly,  but  it  does  no  good  —  and 
perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  secret  I  want  to 
know.  I  will  pay  any  sum  for  it.  I  am  very 
rich  and  very  young,  and,  if  money  cannot  buy 
it,  I  will  give  as  many  years  of  my  life  as  you 
require." 

He  moved  his  hands  convulsively,  and  his 
hair  was  wet  upon  his  forehead.  He  was  very 
handsome  in  that  mystic  light,  but  his  eye 


178  PRTJB   AND  I. 

burned  with  eagerness,  and  his  slight,  graceful 
frame  thrilled  with  the  earnestness  of  his 
emotion.  The  Emperor  Hadrian,  who  loved 
the  boy  Antinous,  would  have  loved  the  youth. 

"  But  what  is  it  that  you  wish  to  leave  be 
hind  ?  "  said  I,  at  length,  holding  his  arm  pater 
nally  ;  "  what  do  you  wish  to  escape  ?  " 

He  threw  his  arms  straight  down  by  his  side, 
clenched  his  hands,  and  looked  fixedly  in  my 
eyes.  The  beautiful  head  was  thrown  a  little 
back  upon  one  shoulder,  and  the  wan  face 
glowed  with  yearning  desire  and  utter  abandon 
ment  to  confidence,  so  that,  without  his  saying 
it,  I  knew  that  he  had  never  whispered  the 
secret  which  he  was  about  to  impart  to  me. 
Then,  with  a  long  sigh,  as  if  his  life  were  ex 
haling,  he  whispered :  — 

"  Myself." 

"  Ah !  my  boy,  you  are  bound  upon  a  long 
journey." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  replied  mournfully  ;  "  and  I 
cannot  even  get  started.  If  I  don't  get  off  in 
this  ship,  I  fear  I  shall  never  escape."  His 
last  words  were  lost  in  the  mist  which  gradually 
removed  him  from  my  view. 

"  The  youth  has  been  amusing  you  with  some 
of  his  wild  fancies,  I  suppose,"  said  a  venerable 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.       179 

man,  who  might  have  been  twin  brother  of  that 
snowy-bearded  pilot.  "It  is  a  great  pity  so 
promising  a  young  man  should  be  the  victim  of 
such  vagaries." 

He  stood  looking  over  the  side  for  some  time, 
and  at  length  added :  — 

"  Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  arrive  soon  ?  " 

"Where?  "asked  I. 

"  Why,  in  Eldorado,  of  course,"  answered  he. 
"The  truth  is,  I  became  very  tired  of  that 
long  process  to  find  the  Philosopher's  Stone, 
and,  although  I  was  just  upon  the  point  of  the 
last  combination  which  must  infallibly  have 
produced  the  medium,  I  abandoned  it  when  I 
heard  Orellana's  account,  and  found  that  Nature 
had  already  done  in  Eldorado  precisely  what  I 
was  trying  to  do.  You  see,"  continued  the  old 
man  abstractedly,  "  I  had  put  youth,  and  love, 
and  hope,  besides  a  great  many  scarce  minerals, 
into  the  crucible,  and  they  all  dissolved  slowly, 
and  vanished  in  vapor.  It  was  curious,  but  they 
left  no  residuum  except  a  little  ashes,  which 
were  not  strong  enough  to  make  a  lye  to  cure 
a  lame  finger.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  Orellana 
told  us  about  Eldorado  just  in  time,  and  I 
thought  if  any  ship  would  carry  me  there  it 
must  be  this.  But  I  am  very  sorry  to  find 


180  PE.UE   AND    I. 

that  any  one  who  is  in  pursuit  of  such  a  hope 
less  goal  as  that  pale  young  man  yonder,  should 
have  taken  passage.  It  is  only  age,"  he  said, 
slowly  stroking  his  white  beard,  "that  teaches 
us  wisdom,  and  persuades  us  to  renounce  the 
hope  of  escaping  ourselves  ;  and  just  as  we  are 
discovering  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  relieves  our 
anxiety  by  pointing  the  way  to  Eldorado." 

"Are  we  really  going  there?"  asked  I,  in 
some  trepidation. 

"  Can  there  be  any  doubt  of  it  ?  "  replied  the 
old  man.  "  Where  should  we  be  going,  if  not 
there  ?  However,  let  us  summon  the  passengers 
and  ascertain." 

So  saying,  the  venerable  man  beckoned  to 
the  various  groups  that  were  clustered,  ghost 
like,  in  the  mist  that  enveloped  the  ship.  They 
seemed  to  draw  nearer  with  listless  curiosity, 
and  stood  or  sat  near  us,  smoking  as  before,  or, 
still  leaning  on  the  side,  idly  gazing.  But  the 
restless  figure  who  had  first  accosted  me  still 
paced  the  deck,  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  ob 
scurity  ;  and  as  he  passed  there  was  the  same 
mien  of  humbled  pride,  and  the  air  of  a  fate  of 
tragic  grandeur,  and  still  the  same  faint  odor 
of  old  clothes,  and  the  low  querulous  cry,  "  Old 
clo' !  old  clo' ! " 


CRUISE  IN  THE   FLYING  DUTCHMAN.      181 

The  ship  dashed  on.  Unknown  odors  and 
strange  sounds  still  filled  the  air,  and  all  the 
world  went  by  us  as  we  flew,  with  no  other  noise 
than  the  low  gurgling  of  the  sea  around  the  side. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  reverend  passenger 
for  Eldorado,  "I  hope  there  is  no  misappre 
hension  as  to  our  destination  ?  " 

As  he  said  this,  there  was  a  general  move 
ment  of  anxiety  and  curiosity.  Presently  the 
smoker,  who  had  asked  me  where  he  was  going, 
said  doubtfully :  — 

"  I  don't  know  —  it  seems  to  me  —  I  mean  I 
wish  somebody  would  distinctly  say  where  we 
are  going." 

"  I  think  I  can  throw  a  light  upon  this  sub 
ject,"  said  a  person  whom  I  had  not  before 
remarked.  He  was  dressed  like  a  sailor,  and 
had  a  dreamy  eye.  "It  is  very  clear  to  me 
where  we  are  going.  I  have  been  taking  ob 
servations  for  some  time,  and  I  am  glad  to 
announce  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  achieving 
great  fame ;  and  I  may  add,"  said  he,  modestly, 
"that  my  own  good  name  for  scientific  acumen 
will  be  amply  vindicated.  Gentlemen,  we  are 
undoubtedly  going  into  the  Hole." 

"What  hole  is  that?"  asked  M.  le  Baron 
Munchausen,  a  little  contemptuously. 


182  PRTJE   AND    I. 

"Sir,  it  will  make  you  more  famous  than 
you  ever  were  before,"  replied  the  first  speaker, 
evidently  much  enraged. 

"  I  am  persuaded  we  are  going  into  no  such 
absurd  place,"  said  the  Baron,  exasperated. 

The  sailor  with  the  dreamy  eye  was  fearfully 
angry.  He  drew  himself  up  stiffly  and  said :  — 

"  Sir,  you  lie !  " 

M.  le  Baron  Munchausen  took  it  in  very  good 
part.  He  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand :  — 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  blandly,  "  that  is  pre 
cisely  what  I  have  always  heard.  I  am  glad  you 
do  me  no  more  than  justice.  I  fully  assent  to 
your  theory :  and  your  words  constitute  me  the 
proper  historiographer  of  the  expedition.  But 
tell  me  one  thing,  how  soon,  after  getting  into 
the  Hole,  do  you  think  we  shall  get  out  ?  " 

"The  result  will  prove,"  said  the  marine 
gentleman,  handing  the  officer  his  card,  upon 
which  was  written,  Captain  Symmes.  The  two 
gentlemen  then  walked  aside ;  and  the  groups 
began  to  sway  to  and  fro  in  the  haze  as  if  not 
quite  contented. 

"Good  God,"  said  the  pale  youth,  running 
up  to  me  and  clutching  my  arm,  "  I  cannot  go 
into  any  Hole  alone  with  myself.  I  should  die 
—  I  should  kill  myself.  I  thought  somebody 


CRUISE  IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.       183 

was  on  board,  and  I  hoped  you  were  he,  who 
would  steer  us  to  the  fountain  of  oblivion." 

"  Very  well,  that  is  in  the  Hole,"  said  M.  le 
Baron,  who  came  out  of  the  mist  at  that  mo 
ment,  leaning  upon  the  Captain's  arm. 

"  But  can  I  leave  myself  outside  ?  "  asked  the 
youth,  nervously. 

"Certainly,"  interposed  the  old  Alchemist; 
"  you  may  be  sure  that  you  will  not  get  into 
the  Hole,  until  you  have  left  yourself  behind." 

The  pale  young  man  grasped  his  hand,  and 
gazed  into  his  eyes. 

"  And  then  I  can  drink  and  be  happy,"  mur 
mured  he,  as  he  leaned  over  the  side  of  the 
ship,  and  listened  to  the  rippling  water,  as 
if  it  had  been  the  music  of  the  fountain  of 
oblivion. 

"  Drink !  drink ! "  said  the  smoking  old  man. 
"  Fountain !  fountain !  Why,  I  believe  that  is 
what  I  am  after.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  contin 
ued  he,  addressing  the  Alchemist.  "But  can 
you  tell  me  if  I  am  looking  for  a  fountain  ?  " 

"The  fountain  of  youth,  perhaps,"  replied 
the  Alchemist. 

"  The  very  thing ! "  cried  the  smoker,  with  a 
shrill  laugh,  while  his  pipe  fell  from  his  mouth 
and  was  shattered  upon  the  deck,  and  the  old 


184  PRUE  AND   I. 

man  tottered  away  into  the  mist,  chuckling 
feebly  to  himself,  "  Youth !  youth !  " 

"He'll  find  that  in  the  Hole,  too,"  said  the 
Alchemist,  as  he  gazed  after  the  receding  figure. 

The  crowd  now  gathered  more  nearly  around 
us. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  Alchemist, 
"where  shall  we  go,  or,  rather,  where  are  we 
going  ?  " 

A  man  in  friar's  habit,  with  the  cowl  closely 
drawn  about  his  head,  now  crossed  himself, 
and  whispered :  — 

"  I  have  but  one  object.  I  should  not  have 
been  here  if  I  had  not  supposed  we  were  going 
to  find  Prester  John,  to  whom  I  have  been  ap 
pointed  father  confessor,  and  at  whose  court  I 
am  to  live  splendidly,  like  a  cardinal  at  Rome. 
Gentlemen,  if  you  will  only  agree  that  we  shall 
go  there,  you  shall  all  be  permitted  to  hold  my 
train  when  I  proceed  to  be  enthroned  as  Bishop 
of  Central  Africa." 

While  he  was  speaking,  another  old  man 
came  from  the  bows  of  the  ship,  a  figure  which 
had  been  so  immovable  in  its  place  that  I  sup 
posed  it  was  the  ancient  figure-head  of  the 
craft,  and  said  in  a  low,  hollow  voice,  and  a 
quaint  accent :  — 


CRUISE   IN   THE  FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      185 

"I  have  been  looking  for  centuries,  and  I 
cannot  see  it.  I  supposed  we  were  heading 
for  it.  I  thought  sometimes  I  saw  the  flash  of 
distant  spires,  the  sunny  gleam  of  upland  pas 
tures,  the  soft  undulation  of  purple  hills.  Ah ! 
me.  I  am  sure  I  heard  the  singing  of  birds, 
and  the  faint  low  of  cattle.  But  I  do  not 
know :  we  come  no  nearer ;  and  yet  I  felt  its 
presence  in  the  air.  If  the  mist  would  only 
lift,  we  should  see  it  lying  so  fair  upon  the  sea, 
so  graceful  against  the  sky.  I  fear  we  may 
have  passed  it.  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  sadly,  "I 
am  afraid  we  may  have  lost  the  island  of  At 
lantis  forever." 

There  was  a  look  of  uncertainty  in  the  throng 
upon  the  deck. 

"But  yet,"  said  a  group  of  young  men  in 
every  kind  of  costume,  and  of  every  country 
and  time,  "we  have  a  chance  at  the  Encanta- 
das,  the  Enchanted  Islands.  We  were  reading 
of  them  only  the  other  day,  and  the  very  style 
of  the  story  had  the  music  of  waves.  How 
happy  we  shall  be  to  reach  a  land  where  there 
is  no  work,  nor  tempest,  nor  pain,  and  we  shall 
be  forever  happy." 

"  I  am  content  here,"  said  a  laughing  youth, 
with  heavily  matted  curls.  "  What  can  be  bet- 


186  PRTJE   AND   I. 

ter  than  this  ?  We  feel  every  climate,  the 
music  and  the  perfume  of  every  zone  are  ours. 
In  the  starlight  I  woo  the  mermaids,  as  I  lean 
over  the  side,  and  no  enchanted  island  will  show 
us  fairer  forms.  I  am  satisfied.  The  ship  sails 
on.  We  cannot  see  but  we  can  dream.  What 
work  or  pain  have  we  here  ?  I  like  the  ship ; 
I  like  the  voyage  ;  I  like  my  company,  and  am 
content." 

As  he  spoke  he  put  something  into  his  mouth, 
and,  drawing  a  white  substance  from  his  pocket, 
offered  it  to  his  neighbor,  saying,  "  Try  a  bit  of 
this  lotus;  you  will  find  it  very  soothing  to 
the  nerves,  and  an  infallible  remedy  for  home 
sickness." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  M.  le  Baron  Munchausen, 
"I  have  no  fear.  The  arrangements  are  well 
made ;  the  voyage  has  been  perfectly  planned, 
and  each  passenger  will  discover  what  he  took 
passage  to  find,  in  the  Hole  into  which  we  are 
going,  under  the  auspices  of  this  worthy  Cap 
tain." 

He  ceased,  and  silence  fell  upon  the  ship's 
company.  Still  on  we  swept ;  it  seemed  a 
weary  way.  The  tireless  pedestrians  still 
paced  to  and  fro,  and  the  idle  smokers  puffed. 
The  ship  sailed  on,  and  endless  music  and  odor 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      187 

chased  each  other  through  the  misty  air.  Sud 
denly  a  deep  sigh  drew  universal  attention  to 
a  person  who  had  not  yet  spoken.  He  held  a 
broken  harp  in  his  hand,  the  strings  fluttered 
loosely  in  the  air,  and  the  head  of  the  speaker, 
bound  with  a  withered  wreath  of  laurels,  bent 
over  it. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  I  will  not  eat  your  lotus, 
nor  sail  into  the  Hole.  No  magic  root  can  cure 
the  homesickness  I  feel ;  for  it  is  no  regretful 
remembrance,  but  an  immortal  longing.  I  have 
roamed  farther  than  I  thought  the  earth  ex 
tended.  I  have  climbed  mountains;  I  have 
threaded  rivers ;  I  have  sailed  seas ;  but  no 
where  have  I  seen  the  home  for  which  my 
heart  aches.  Ah!  my  friends,  you  look  very 
weary ;  let  us  go  home." 

The  pedestrian  paused  a  moment  in  his  walk, 
and  the  smokers  took  their  pipes  from  their 
mouths.  The  soft  air  which  blew  in  that  mo 
ment  across  the  deck,  drew  a  low  sound  from 
the  broken  harp-strings,  and  a  light  shone  in 
the  eyes  of  the  old  man  of  the  figure-head,  as 
if  the  mist  had  lifted  for  an  instant,  and  he 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  lost  Atlantis. 

"  I  really  believe  that  is  where  I  wish  to  go," 
said  the  seeker  of  the  fountain  of  youth.  "  I 


188  PRTJE  AND  I. 

think  I  would  give  up  drinking  at  the  fountain 
if  I  could  get  there.  I  do  not  know,"  he  mur 
mured  doubtfully;  "it  is  not  sure;  I  mean, 
perhaps,  I  should  not  have  strength  to  get  to 
the  fountain,  even  if  I  were  near  it." 

"  But  is  it  possible  to  get  home  ?  "  inquired 
the  pale  young  man.  "  I  think  I  should  be 
resigned  if  I  could  get  home." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  dry,  hard  voice  of 
Prester  John's  confessor,  as  his  cowl  fell  a  little 
back,  and  a  sudden  flush  burned  upon  his 
gaunt  face ;  "  if  there  is  any  chance  of  home, 
I  will  give  up  the  Bishop's  palace  in  Central 
Africa." 

"  But  Eldorado  is  my  home,"  interposed  the 
old  Alchemist. 

"Or  is  home  Eldorado?"  asked  the  poet, 
with  the  withered  wreath,  turning  towards  the 
Alchemist. 

It  was  a  strange  company  and  a  wondrous 
voyage.  Here  were  all  kinds  of  men,  of  all 
times  and  countries,  pursuing  the  wildest  hopes, 
the  most  chimerical  desires.  One  took  me 
aside  to  request  that  I  would  not  let  it  be 
known,  but  that  he  inferred  from  certain  signs 
we  were  nearing  Utopia.  Another  whispered 
gayly  in  my  ear  that  he  thought  the  water  was 


CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN.      189 

gradually  becoming  of  a  ruby  color  —  the  hue 
of  wine ;  and  he  had  no  doubt  we  should  wake 
in  the  morning  and  find  ourselves  in  the  land 
of  Cockaigne.  A  third,  in  great  anxiety,  stated 
to  me  that  such  continuous  mists  were  unknown 
upon  the  ocean ;  that  they  were  peculiar  to 
rivers,  and  that,  beyond  question,  we  were  drift 
ing  along  some  stream,  probably  the  Nile,  and 
immediate  measures  ought  to  be  taken  that  we 
did  not  go  ashore  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains 
of  the  moon.  Others  were  quite  sure  that  we 
were  in  the  way  of  striking  the  great  southern 
continent;  and  a  young  man,  who  gave  his 
name  as  Wilkins,  said  we  might  be  quite  at 
ease,  for  presently  some  friends  of  his  would 
come  flying  over  from  the  neighboring  islands 
and  tell  us  all  we  wished. 

Still  I  smelled  the  mouldy  rigging,  and 
the  odor  of  cabbage  was  strong  from  the 
hold. 

O  Prue,  what  could  the  ship  be,  in  which 
such  fantastic  characters  were  sailing  toward 
impossible  bournes  —  characters  which  in  every 
age  have  ventured  all  the  bright  capital  of  life 
in  vague  speculations  and  romantic  dreams  ? 
What  could  it  be  but  the  ship  that  haunts  the 
sea  forever,  and,  with  all  sails  set,  drives  on- 


190  PKUB   AND   I. 

ward  before  a  ceaseless  gale,  and  is  not  hailed, 
nor  ever  comes  to  port  ? 

I  know  the  ship  is  always  full ;  I  know  the 
graybeard  still  watches  at  the  prow  for  the  lost 
Atlantis,  and  still  the  alchemist  believes  that 
Eldorado  is  at  hand.  Upon  his  aimless  quest, 
the  dotard  still  asks  where  he  is  going,  and  the 
pale  youth  knows  that  he  shall  never  fly  him 
self.  Yet  they  would  gladly  renounce  that 
wild  chase  and  the  dear  dreams  of  years,  could 
they  find  what  I  have  never  lost.  They  were 
ready  to  follow  the  poet  home,  if  he  would  have 
told  them  where  it  lay. 

I  know  where  it  lies.  I  breathe  the  soft  air 
of  the  purple  uplands  which  they  shall  never 
tread.  I  hear  the  sweet  music  of  the  voices 
they  long  for  in  vain.  I  am  no  traveller ;  my 
only  voyage  is  to  the  office  and  home  again. 
William  and  Christopher,  John  and  Charles, 
sail  to  Europe  and  the  South,  but  I  defy  their 
romantic  distances.  When  the  spring  comes 
and  the  flowers  blow,  I  drift  through  the  year 
belted  with  summer  and  with  spice. 

With  the  changing  months  I  keep  high  car 
nival  in  all  the  zones.  I  sit  at  home  and  walk 
with  Prue,  and  if  the  sun  that  stirs  the  sap 
quickens  also  the  wish  to  wander,  I  remember 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      191 

my  fellow-voyagers  on  that  romantic  craft,  and 
looking  round  upon  my  peaceful  room,  and 
pressing  more  closely  the  arm  of  Prue,  I  feel 
that  I  have  reached  the  port  for  which  they 
hopelessly  sailed.  And  when  winds  blow 
fiercely  and  the  night-storm  rages,  and  the 
thought  of  lost  mariners  and  of  perilous 
voyages  touches  the  soft  heart  of  Prue,  I  hear 
a  voice  sweeter  to  my  ear  than  that  of  the 
sirens  to  the  tempest-tost  sailor :  "  Thank  God ! 
Your  only  cruising  is  in  the  Flying  Dutchman ! " 


FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 

" Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

Hamlet. 


FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 

"  Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

Hamlet. 

WE  have  no  family  pictures,  Prue  and  I,  only 
a  portrait  of  my  grandmother  hangs  upon  our 
parlor  wall.  It  was  taken  at  least  a  century 
ago,  and  represents  the  venerable  lady,  whom  I 
remember  in  my  childhood  in  spectacles  and 
comely  cap,  as  a  young  and  blooming  girl. 

She  is  sitting  upon  an  old-fashioned  sofa,  by 
the  side  of  a  prim  aunt  of  hers,  and  with  her 
back  to  the  open  window.  Her  costume  is  quaint, 
but  handsome.  It  consists  of  a  cream-colored 
dress  made  high  in  the  throat,  ruffled  around 
the  neck  and  over  the  bosom  and  the  shoulders. 
The  waist  is  just  under  her  shoulders,  and  the 
sleeves  are  tight,  tighter  than  any  of  our  coat 
sleeves,  and  also  ruffled  at  the  wrist.  Around 
the  plump  and  rosy  neck,  which  I  remember  as 
shrivelled  and  sallow,  and  hidden  under  a  de 
cent  lace  handkerchief,  hangs,  in  the  picture,  a 
195 


196  PRUE   AND    I. 

necklace  of  large  ebony  beads.  There  are  two 
curls  upon  the  forehead,  and  the  rest  of  the  hair 
flows  away  in  ringlets  down  the  neck. 

The  hands  hold  an  open  book :  the  eyes  look 
up  from  it  with  tranquil  sweetness,  and,  through 
the  open  window  behind,  you  see  a  quiet  land 
scape  —  a  hill,  a  tree,  the  glimpse  of  a  river, 
and  a  few  peaceful  summer  clouds. 

Often  in  my  younger  days,  when  my  grand 
mother  sat  by  the  fire,  after  dinner,  lost  in 
thought  —  perhaps  remembering  the  time  when 
the  picture  was  really  a  portrait  —  I  have  curi 
ously  compared  her  wasted  face  with  the  bloom 
ing  beauty  of  the  girl,  and  tried  to  detect  the 
likeness.  It  was  strange  how  the  resemblance 
would  sometimes  start  out:  how,  as  I  gazed 
and  gazed  upon  her  old  face,  age  disappeared 
before  my  eager  glance,  as  snow  melts  in  the 
sunshine,  revealing  the  flowers  of  a  forgotten 
spring. 

It  was  touching  to  see  my  grandmother  steal 
quietly  up  to  her  portrait,  on  still  summer  morn 
ings  when  every  one  had  left  the  house,  —  and 
I,  the  only  child,  played,  disregarded,  —  and 
look  at  it  wistfully  and  long. 

She  held  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shade 
them  from  the  light  that  streamed  in  at  the 


FAMILY   PORTRAITS.  197 

window,  and  I  have  seen  her  stand  at  least  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  gazing  steadfastly  at  the 
picture.  She  said  nothing,  she  made  no  motion, 
she  shed  no  tear,  but  when  she  turned  away 
there  was  always  a  pensive  sweetness  in  her 
face  that  made  it  not  less  lovely  than  the  face 
of  her  youth. 

I  have  learned  since,  what  her  thoughts  must 
have  been — how  that  long  wistful  glance  anni 
hilated  time  and  space,  how  forms  and  faces 
unknown  to  any  other  rose  in  sudden  resurrec 
tion  around  her  —  how  she  loved,  suffered, 
struggled,  and  conquered  again;  how  many  a 
jest  that  I  shall  never  hear,  how  many  a  game 
that  I  shall  never  play,  how  many  a  song  that 
I  shall  never  sing,  were  all  renewed  and  remem 
bered  as  my  grandmother  contemplated  her 
picture. 

I  often  stand  as  she  stood,  gazing  earnestly 
at  the  picture,  so  long  and  so  silently,  that  Prue 
looks  up  from  her  work  and  says  she  shall  be 
jealous  of  that  beautiful  belle,  my  grandmother, 
who  yet  makes  her  think  more  kindly  of  those 
remote  old  times. 

"Yes,  Prue,  and  that  is  the  charm  of  a 
family  portrait." 

(<  Yes,  again  j  but,"  says  Titbottom,  when  he 


198  PRUE   AND  I. 

hears  the  remark,  "how,  if  one's  grandmother 
were  a  shrew,  a  termagant,  a  virago  ?  " 

"  Ah !  in  that  case  —  "  I  am  compelled  to 
say,  while  Prue  looks  up  again,  half  archly,  and 
I  add  gravely  — "you,  for  instance,  Prue." 

Then  Titbottom  smiles  one  of  his  sad  smiles, 
and  we  change  the  subject. 

Yet,  I  am  always  glad  when  Minim  Sculpin, 
our  neighbor,  who  knows  that  my  opportunities 
are  few,  comes  to  ask  me  to  step  round  and  see 
the  family  portraits. 

The  Sculpins,  I  think,  are  a  very  old  family. 
Titbottom  says  they  date  from  the  deluge.  But 
I  thought  people  of  English  descent  preferred 
to  stop  with  William  the  Conqueror,  who  came 
from  France. 

Before  going  with  Minim,  I  always  fortify 
myself  with  a  glance  at  the  great  family  Bible, 
in  which  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  patriarchs  are 
indifferently  well  represented. 

"  Those  are  the  ancestors  of  the  Howards, 
the  Plantagenets,  and  the  Montmorencis,"  says 
Prue,  surprising  me  with  her  erudition.  "  Have 
you  any  remoter  ancestry,  Mr.  Sculpin  ?  "  she 
asks  Minim,  who  only  smiles  compassionately 
upon  the  dear  woman,  while  I  am  buttoning 
my  coat 


FAMILY   PORTRAITS.  199 

Then  we  step  along  the  street,  and  I  am  con 
scious  of  trembling  a  little,  for  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  going  to  court.  Suddenly  we  are  standing 
before  the  range  of  portraits. 

"  This,"  says  Minim,  with  unction,  "  is  Sir 
Solomon  Sculpin,  the  founder  of  the  family." 

"  Famous  for  what  ?  "  I  ask  respectfully. 

"For  founding  the  family,"  replies  Minim, 
gravely,  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  a  little 
severely. 

"  This,"  he  says,  pointing  to  a  dame  in  hoops 
and  diamond  stomacher,  "this  is  Lady  Sheba 
Sculpin." 

"  Ah !  yes.  Famous  for  what  ? "  I  in 
quire. 

"  For  being  the  wife  of  Sir  Solomon." 

Then,  in  order,  comes  a  gentleman  in  a  huge, 
curling  wig,  looking  indifferently  like  James 
the  Second,  or  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  and  hold 
ing  a  scroll  in  his  hand. 

"The  Eight  Honorable  Haddock  Sculpin, 
Lord  Privy  Seal,  etc.,  etc." 

A  delicate  beauty  hangs  between,  a  face  fair, 
and  loved,  and  lost,  centuries  ago  —  a  song  to 
the  eye  —  a  poem  to  the  heart  —  the  Aurelia 
of  that  old  society. 

"  Lady  Dorothea  Sculpin,  who  married  young 


200  PRUE    AND   I. 

Lord  Pop  and  Cock,  and  died  prematurely  in 
Italy." 

Poor  Lady  Dorothea !  whose  great  grandchild, 
in  the  tenth  remove,  died  last  week,  an  old  man 
of  eighty ! 

Next  the  gentle  lady  hangs  a  fierce  figure, 
flourishing  a  sword,  with  an  anchor  embroidered 
on  his  coat-collar,  and  thunder  and  lightning, 
sinking  ships,  flames,  and  tornadoes  in  the  back 
ground. 

"  Rear  Admiral  Sir  Shark  Sculpin,  who  fell 
in  the  great  action  off  Madagascar." 

So  Minim  goes  on  through  the  series,  bran 
dishing  his  ancestors  about  my  head,  and  incon 
tinently  knocking  me  into  admiration. 

And  when  we  reach  the  last  portrait  and  our 
own  times,  what  is  the  natural  emotion  ?  Is  it 
not  to  put  Minim  against  the  wall,  draw  off  at 
him  with  my  eyes  and  mind,  scan  him,  and  con 
sider  his  life,  and  determine  how  much  of  the 
Eight  Honorable  Haddock's  integrity,  and  the 
Lady  Dorothy's  loveliness,  and  the  Admiral 
Shark's  valor,  reappears  in  the  modern  man  ? 
After  all  this  proving  and  refining,  ought  not 
the  last  child  of  a  famous  race  to  be  its  flower 
and  epitome  ?  Or,  in  the  case  that  he  does  not 
chance  to  be  so,  is  it  not  better  to  conceal  the 
family  name  ? 


FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  201 

I  am  told,  however,  that  in  the  higher  circles 
of  society,  it  is  better  not  to  conceal  the  name, 
however  unworthy  the  man  or  woman  may  be 
who  bears  it.  Prue  once  remonstrated  with  a 
lady  about  the  marriage  of  a  lovely  young  girl 
with  a  cousin  of  Minim's ;  but  the  only  answer 
she  received  was,  "  Well,  he  may  not  be  a  perfect 
man,  but  then  he  is  a  Sculpin,"  which  consid 
eration  apparently  gave  great  comfort  to  the 
lady's  mind. 

But  even  Prue  grants  that  Minim  has  some 
reason  for  his  pride.  Sir  Solomon  was  a  re 
spectable  man,  and  Sir  Shark  a  brave  one ;  and 
the  Right  Honorable  Haddock  a  learned  one ; 
the  Lady  Sheba  was  grave  and  gracious  in  her 
way ;  and  the  smile  of  the  fair  Dorothea  lights 
with  soft  sunlight  those  long-gone  summers. 
The  filial  blood  rushes  more  gladly  from  Minim's 
heart  as  he  gazes ;  and  admiration  for  the  vir 
tues  of  his  kindred  inspires  and  sweetly  mingles 
with  good  resolutions  of  his  own. 

Time  has  its  share,  too,  in  the  ministry,  and 
the  influence.  The  hills  beyond  the  river  lay 
yesterday,  at  sunset,  lost  in  purple  gloom ;  they 
receded  into  airy  distances  of  dreams  and  faery ; 
they  sank  softly  into  night,  the  peaks  of  the 
delectable  mountains.  But  I  knew,  as  I  gazed 


202  PKUE   AND   I. 

enchanted,  that  the  hills,  so  purple-soft  of  seem 
ing,  were  hard,  and  gray,  and  barren  in  the  win 
try  twilight ;  and  that  in  the  distance  was  the 
magic  that  made  them  fair. 

So,  beyond  the  river  of  time  that  flows  be 
tween,  walk  the  brave  men  and  the  beautiful 
women  of  our  ancestry,  grouped  in  twilight 
upon  the  shore.  Distance  smooths  away  de 
fects,  and,  with  gentle  darkness,  rounds  every 
form  into  grace.  It  steals  the  harshness  from 
their  speech,  and  every  word  becomes  a  song. 
Far  across  the  gulf  that  ever  widens,  they  look 
upon  us  with  eyes  whose  glance  is  tender,  and 
which  light  us  to  success.  We  acknowledge 
our  inheritance ;  we  accept  our  birthright ;  we 
own  that  their  careers  have  pledged  us  to  noble 
action.  Every  great  life  is  an  incentive  to  all 
other  lives ;  but  when  the  brave  heart,  that  beats 
for  the  world,  loves  us  with  the  warmth  of  pri 
vate  affection,  then  the  example  of  heroism  is 
more  persuasive,  because  more  personal. 

This  is  the  true  pride  of  ancestry.  It  is 
founded  in  the  tenderness  with  which  the  child 
regards  the  father,  and  in  the  romance  that 
time  sheds  upon  history. 

"  Where  be  all  the  bad  people  buried  ?  "  asks 
every  man,  with  Charles  Lamb,  as  he  strolls 


FAMILY   PORTRAITS.  203 

among  the  rank  grave-yard  grass,  and  brushes 
it  aside  to  read  of  the  faithful  husband,  and  the 
loving  wife,  and  the  dutiful  child. 

He  finds  only  praise  in  the  epitaphs,  because 
the  human  heart  is  kind ;  because  it  yearns 
with  wistful  tenderness  after  all  its  brethren 
who  have  passed  into  the  cloud,  and  will  only 
speak  well  of  the  departed.  No  offence  is  longer 
an  offence  when  the  grass  is  green  over  the  of 
fender.  Even  faults  then  seem  characteristic  and 
individual.  Even  Justice  is  appeased  when  the 
drop  falls.  How  the  old  stories  and  plays  teem 
with  the  incident  of  the  duel  in  which  one  gen 
tleman  falls,  and,  in  dying,  forgives  and  is  for 
given.  We  turn  the  page  with  a  tear.  How 
much  better  had  there  been  no  offence,  but  how 
well  that  death  wipes  it  out. 

It  is  not  observed  in  history  that  families 
improve  with  time.  It  is  rather  discovered 
that  the  whole  matter  is  like  a  comet,  of  which 
the  brightest  part  is  the  head ;  and  the  tail,  al 
though  long  and  luminous,  is  gradually  shaded 
into  obscurity. 

Yet,  by  a  singular  compensation,  the  pride 
of  ancestry  increases  in  the  ratio  of  distance. 
Adam  was  valiant,  and  did  so  well  at  Poictiers 
that  he  was  knighted — a  hearty,  homely,  coun- 


204  PRUB   AND   I. 

try  gentleman,  who  lived  humbly  to  the  end. 
But  young  Lucifer,  his  representative  in  the 
twentieth  remove,  has  a  tinder-like  conceit 
because  old  Sir  Adam  was  so  brave  and  hum 
ble.  Sir  Adam's  sword  is  hung  up  at  home, 
and  Lucifer  has  a  box  at  the  opera.  On  a  thin 
finger  he  has  a  ring,  cut  with  a  match  fizzling, 
the  crest  of  the  Lucifers.  But  if  he  should  be 
at  Poictiers,  he  would  run  away.  Then  history 
would  be  sorry  —  not  only  for  his  cowardice,  but 
for  the  shame  it  brings  upon  old  Adam's  name. 
So,  if  Minim  Sculpin  is  a  bad  young  man,  he 
not  only  shames  himself,  but  he  disgraces  that 
illustrious  line  of  ancestors,  whose  characters 
are  known.  His  neighbor,  Mudge,  has  no  pedi 
gree  of  this  kind,  and  when  he  reels  homeward, 
we  do  not  suffer  the  sorrow  of  any  fair  Lady 
Dorothy  in  such  a  descendant  —  we  pity  him 
for  himself  alone.  But  genius  and  power  are 
so  imperial  and  universal,  that  when  Minim 
Sculpin  falls,  we  are  grieved  not  only  for  him, 
but  for  that  eternal  truth  and  beauty  which  ap 
peared  in  the  valor  of  Sir  Shark,  and  the  love 
liness  of  Lady  Dorothy.  His  neighbor  Mudge's 
grandfather  may  have  been  quite  as  valorous 
and  virtuous  as  Sculpin's ;  but  we  know  of  the 
one,  and  we  do  not  know  of  the  other. 


FAMILY   PORTEAITS.  205 

Therefore,  Prue,  I  say  to  my  wife,  who  has, 
by  this  time,  fallen  as  soundly  asleep  as  if  I 
had  been  preaching  a  real  sermon,  do  not  let 
Mrs.  Mudge  feel  hurt  because  I  gaze  so  long 
and  earnestly  upon  the  portrait  of  the  fair 
Lady  Sculpin,  and,  lost  in  dreams,  mingle  in  a 
society  which  distance  and  poetry  immortalize. 

But  let  the  love  of  the  family  portraits  be 
long  to  poetry  and  not  to  politics.  It  is  good  in 
the  one  way,  and  bad  in  the  other. 

The  sentiment  of  ancestral  pride  is  an  integral 
part  of  human  nature.  Its  organization  in  in 
stitutions  is  the  real  object  of  enmity  to  all  sen 
sible  men,  because  it  is  a  direct  preference  of 
derived  to  original  power,  implying  a  doubt 
that  the  world  at  every  period  is  able  to  take 
care  of  itself. 

The  family  portraits  have  a  poetic  signifi 
cance;  but  he  is  a  brave  child  of  the  family 
who  dares  to  show  them.  They  all  sit  in  pas 
sionless  and  austere  judgment  upon  himself. 
Let  him  not  invite  us  to  see  them,  until  he  has 
considered  whether  they  are  honored  or  dis 
graced  by  his  own  career  —  until  he  has  looked 
in  the  glass  of  his  own  thought  and  scanned  his 
own  proportions. 

The  family  portraits  are  like  a  woman's  dia- 


206  PBTJE  AND   I. 

monds :  they  may  flash  finely  enough  before 
the  world,  but  she  herself  trembles  lest  their 
lustre  eclipse  her  eyes.  It  is  difficult  to  resist 
the  tendency  to  depend  upon  those  portraits, 
and  to  enjoy  vicariously  through  them  a  high 
consideration.  But,  after  all,  what  girl  is 
complimented  when  you  curiously  regard  her 
because  her  mother  was  beautiful  ?  What  at 
tenuated  consumptive,  in  whom  self-respect  is 
yet  unconsumed,  delights  in  your  respect  for 
him,  founded  in  honor  for  his  stalwart  ances 
tor? 

No  man  worthy  the  name  rejoices  in  any 
homage  which  his  own  effort  and  character 
have  not  deserved.  You  intrinsically  insult 
him  when  you  make  him  the  scapegoat  of  your 
admiration  for  his  ancestor.  But  when  his  an 
cestor  is  his  accessory,  then  your  homage 
would  flatter  Jupiter.  All  that  Minim  Sculpin 
does  by  his  own  talent  is  the  more  radiantly 
set  and  ornamented  by  the  family  fame.  The 
imagination  is  pleased  when  Lord  John  Russell 
is  Premier  of  England  and  a  whig,  because  the 
great  Lord  William  Russell,  his  ancestor,  died 
in  England  for  liberty. 

In  the  same  way  Minim's  sister  Sara  adds  to 
her  own  grace  the  sweet  memory  of  the  Lady 


FAMILY   PORTRAITS.  207 

Dorothy.  When  she  glides,  a  sunbeam,  through 
that  quiet  house,  and  in  winter  makes  summer 
by  her  presence ;  when  she  sits  at  the  piano, 
singing  in  the  twilight,  or  stands  leaning 
against  the  Venus  in  the  corner  of  the  room  — 
herself  more  graceful  —  then,  in  glancing  from 
her  to  the  portrait  of  the  gentle  Dorothy,  you 
feel  that  the  long  years  between  them  have 
been  lighted  by  the  same  sparkling  grace,  and 
shadowed  by  the  same  pensive  smile  —  for  this 
is  but  one  Sara  and  one  Dorothy,  out  of  all  that 
there  are  in  the  world. 

As  we  look  at  these  two,  we  must  own  that 
noblesse  oblige  in  a  sense  sweeter  than  we  knew, 
and  be  glad  when  young  Sculpin  invites  us  to 
see  the  family  portraits.  Could  a  man  be 
named  Sidney,  and  not  be  a  better  man,  or 
Milton,  and  be  a  churl  ? 

But  it  is  apart  from  any  historical  association 
that  I  like  to  look  at  the  family  portraits.  The 
Sculpins  were  very  distinguished  heroes,  and 
judges,  and  founders  of  families ;  but  I  chiefly 
linger  upon  their  pictures,  because  they  were 
men  and  women.  Their  portraits  remove  the 
vagueness  from  history,  and  give  it  reality. 
Ancient  valor  and  beauty  cease  to  be  names 
and  poetic  myths,  and  become  facts.  I  feel 


208  PRTJE  AND   I. 

that  they  lived,  and  loved,  and  suffered  in  those 
old  days.  The  story  of  their  lives  is  instantly 
full  of  human  sympathy  in  my  mind,  and  I 
judge  them  more  gently,  more  generously. 

Then  I  look  at  those  of  us  who  are  the  spec 
tators  of  the  portraits.  I  know  that  we  are 
made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  that  time  is 
preparing  us  to  be  placed  in  his  cabinet  and 
upon  canvas,  to  be  curiously  studied  by  the 
grandchildren  of  unborn  Prues.  I  put  out  my 
hands  to  grasp  those  of  my  fellows  around  the 
pictures.  "  Ah !  friends,  we  live  not  only  for 
ourselves.  Those  whom  we  shall  never  see 
will  look  to  us  as  models,  as  counsellors.  We 
shall  be  speechless  then.  We  shall  only  look 
at  them  from  the  canvas,  and  cheer  or  dis 
courage  them  by  their  idea  of  our  lives  and  our 
selves.  Let  us  so  look  in  the  portrait,  that 
they  shall  love  our  memories  —  that  they  shall 
say,  in  turn,  '  They  were  kind  and  thoughtful, 
those  queer  old  ancestors  of  ours;  let  us  not 
disgrace  them.' " 

If  they  only  recognize  us  as  men  and  women 
like  themselves,  they  will  be  the  better  for  it, 
and  the  family  portraits  will  be  family  bless 
ings. 

This  is  what  my  grandmother  did.      She 


FAMILY  POETRAITS.  209 

looked  at  her  own  portrait,  at  the  portrait  of 
her  youth,  with  much  the  same  feeling  that  I 
remember  Prue  as  she  was  when  I  first  saw 
her ;  with  much  the  same  feeling  that  I  hope 
our  grandchildren  will  remember  us. 

Upon  those  still  summer  mornings,  though 
she  stood  withered  and  wan  in  a  plain  black 
silk  gown,  a  close  cap,  and  spectacles,  and  held 
her  shrunken  and  blue-veined  hand  to  shield 
her  eyes,  yet,  as  she  gazed  with  that  long  and 
longing  glance  upon  the  blooming  beauty  that 
had  faded  from  her  form  forever,  she  recog 
nized  under  that  flowing  hair  and  that  rosy 
cheek  —  the  immortal  fashions  of  youth  and 
health  —  and  beneath  those  many  ruffles  and 
that  quaint  high  waist,  the  fashions  of  the  day 
—  the  same  true  and  loving  woman.  If  her 
face  was  pensive  as  she  turned  away,  it  was 
because  truth  and  love  are,  in  their  essence, 
forever  young ;  and  it  is  the  hard  condition  of 
nature  that  they  cannot  always  appear  so. 


OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE. 

"  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play  ; 
For  some  must  watch  while  some  must  sleep ; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away." 


OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE. 

"  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  play  ; 
For  some  must  watch  while  some  must  sleep ; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away." 

PRUE  and  I  have  very  few  relations :  Prue, 
especially,  says  that  she  never  had  any  but  her 
Parents,  and  that  she  has  none  now  but  her 
children.  She  often  wishes  she  had  some  large 
aunt  in  the  country,  who  might  come  in  unex 
pectedly  with  bags  and  bundles,  and  encamp 
in  our  little  house  for  a  whole  winter. 

"  Because  you  are  tired  of  me,  I  suppose,  Mrs. 
Prue  ?  "  I  reply  with  dignity,  when  she  alludes 
to  the  imaginary  large  aunt. 

"  You  could  take  aunt  to  the  opera,  you  know, 
and  walk  with  her  on  Sundays,"  says  Prue,  as 
she  knits  and  calmly  looks  me  in  the  face,  with 
out  recognizing  my  observation. 

Then  I  tell  Prue  in  the  plainest  possible 
manner  that,  if  her  large  aunt  should  come  up 
213 


214  PRUE   AND   I. 

from  the  country  to  pass  the  winter,  I  should 
insist  upon  her  bringing  her  oldest  daughter, 
with  whom  I  would  flirt  so  desperately  that 
the  street  would  be  scandalized,  and  even  the 
corner  grocery  should  gossip  over  the  iniquity. 

"  Poor  Prue,  how  I  should  pity  you,"  I  say 
triumphantly  to  my  wife. 

"  Poor  oldest  daughter,  how  I  should  pity  her," 
replies  Prue,  placidly  counting  her  stitches. 

So  the  happy  evening  passes,  as  we  gayly 
mock  each  other,  and  wonder  how  old  the  large 
aunt  should  be,  and  how  many  bundles  she 
ought  to  bring  with  her. 

"  I  would  have  her  arrive  by  the  late  train 
at  midnight,"  says  Prue ;  "  and  when  she  had 
eaten  some  supper  and  had  gone  to  her  room, 
she  should  discover  that  she  had  left  the  most 
precious  bundle  of  all  in  the  cars,  without  whose 
contents  she  could  not  sleep,  nor  dress,  and  you 
would  start  to  hunt  for  it." 

And  the  needle  clicks  faster  than  ever. 

"  Yes,  and  when  I  am  gone  to  the  office  in  the 
morning,  and  am  busy  about  important  affairs 

—  yes,  Mrs.  Prue,  important  affairs,"  I  insist, 
as  my  wife  half  raises  her  head  incredulously 

—  "then   our   large    aunt    from   the    country 
would  like  to  go  shopping,  and  would  want  you 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CUKATE.  215 

for  her  escort.  And  she  would  cheapen  tape 
at  all  the  shops,  and  even  to  the  great  Stewart 
himself  she  would  offer  a  shilling  less  for  the 
gloves.  Then  the  comely  clerks  of  the  great 
Stewart  would  look  at  you,  with  their  brows 
lifted,  as  if  they  said,  Mrs.  Prue,  your  large 
aunt  had  better  stay  in  the  country." 

And  the  needle  clicks  more  slowly,  as  if  the 
tuue  were  changing. 

The  large  aunt  will  never  come,  I  know ;  nor 
shall  I  ever  flirt  with  the  oldest  daughter.  I 
should  like  to  believe  that  our  little  house  will 
teem  with  aunts  and  cousins  when  Prue  and  I 
are  gone ;  but  how  can  I  believe  it,  when  there  is 
a  milliner  within  three  doors,  and  a  hair-dresser 
combs  his  wigs  in  the  late  dining-room  of  my 
opposite  neighbor?  The  large  aunt  from  the 
country  is  entirely  impossible,  and  as  Prue  feels 
it  and  I  feel  it,  the  needles  seem  to  click  a  dirge 
for  that  late  lamented  lady. 

"  But  at  least  we  have  one  relative,  Prue." 

The  needles  stop :  only  the  clock  ticks  upon 
the  mantel  to  remind  us  how  ceaselessly  the 
stream  of  time  flows  on  that  bears  us  away 
from  our  cousin  the  curate. 

When  Prue  and  I  are  most  cheerful,  and  the 
world  looks  fair  —  we  talk  of  our  cousin  the 


216  PRUE   AND  I. 

curate.  When  the  world  seems  a  little  cloudy, 
and  we  remember  that  though  we  have  lived 
and  loved  together,  we  may  not  die  together 
—  we  talk  of  our  cousin  the  curate.  When 
we  plan  little  plans  for  the  boys  and  dream 
dreams  for  the  girls — we  talk  of  our  cousin  the 
curate.  When  I  tell  Prue  of  Aurelia,  whose 
character  is  every  day  lovelier  —  we  talk  of  our 
cousin  the  curate.  There  is  no  subject  which 
does  not  seem  to  lead  naturally  to  our  cousin 
the  curate.  As  the  soft  air  steals  in  and  en 
velops  everything  in  the  world,  so  that  the 
trees,  and  the  hills,  and  the  rivers,  the  cities, 
the  crops,  and  the  sea,  are  made  remote,  and 
delicate,  and  beautiful,  by  its  pure  baptism,  so 
over  all  the  events  of  our  little  lives,  comfort 
ing,  refining,  and  elevating,  falls  like  a  benedic 
tion  the  remembrance  of  our  cousin  the  curate. 
He  was  my  only  early  companion.  He  had 
no  brother,  I  had  none :  and  we  became  brothers 
to  each  other.  He  was  always  beautiful.  His 
face  was  symmetrical  and  delicate ;  his  figure 
was  slight  and  graceful.  He  looked  as  the  sons 
of  kings  ought  to  look :  as  I  am  sure  Philip  Sid 
ney  looked  when  he  was  a  boy.  His  eyes  were 
blue,  and  as  you  looked  at  them,  they  seemed 
to  let  your  gaze  out  into  a  June  heaven.  The 


OUR  COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  217 

blood  ran  close  to  the  skin,  and  his  complexion 
had  the  rich  transparency  of  light.  There  was 
nothing  gross  or  heavy  in  his  expression  or 
texture ;  his  soul  seemed  to  have  mastered  his 
body.  But  he  had  strong  passions,  for  his  deli 
cacy  was  positive,  not  negative :  it  was  not 
weakness,  but  intensity. 

There  was  a  patch  of  ground  about  the  house 
which  we  tilled  as  a  garden.  I  was  proud 
of  my  morning-glories,  and  sweet  peas;  my 
cousin  cultivated  roses.  One  day  —  and  we 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  than  six  years 
old  —  we  were  digging  merrily  and  talking. 
Suddenly  there  was  some  kind  of  difference ; 
I  taunted  him,  and,  raising  his  spade,  he  struck 
me  upon  the  leg.  The  blow  was  heavy  for  a 
boy,  and  the  blood  trickled  from  the  wound. 
I  burst  into  indignant  tears,  and  limped  toward 
the  house.  My  cousin  turned  pale  and  said 
nothing,  but  just  as  I  opened  the  door,  he 
darted  by  me,  and  before  I  could  interrupt  him, 
he  had  confessed  his  crime,  and  asked  for  pun 
ishment. 

From  that  day  he  conquered  himself.  He 
devoted  a  kind  of  ascetic  energy  to  subduing 
his  own  will,  and  I  remember  no  other  outbreak. 
But  the  penalty  he  paid  for  conquering  his 


218  PRTJE  AND   I. 

will,  was  a  loss  of  the  gu§hing  expression  of 
feeling.  My  cousin  became  perfectly  gentle  in 
his  manner,  but  there  was  a  want  of  that  pun 
gent  excess,  which  is  the  finest  flavor  of  char 
acter.  His  views  were  moderate  and  calm. 
He  was  swept  away  by  no  boyish  extravagance, 
and,  even  while  I  wished  he  would  sin  only  a 
very  little,  I  still  adored  him  as  a  saint.  The 
truth  is,  as  I  tell  Prue,  I  am  so  very  bad  be 
cause  I  have  to  sin  for  two  —  for  myself  and 
our  cousin  the  curate.  Often,  when  I  returned 
panting  and  restless  from  some  frolic,  which 
had  wasted  almost  all  the  night,  I  was  rebuked 
as  I  entered  the  room  in  which  he  lay  peace 
fully  sleeping.  There  was  something  holy  in 
the  profound  repose  of  his  beauty,  and,  as  I 
stood  looking  at  him,  how  many  a  time  the  tears 
have  dropped  from  my  hot  eyes  upon  his  face, 
while  I  vowed  to  make  myself  worthy  of  such 
a  companion,  for  I  felt  my  heart  owning  its 
allegiance  to  that  strong  and  imperial  nature. 
My  cousin  was  loved  by  the  boys,  but  the 
girls  worshipped  him.  His  mind,  large  in 
grasp,  and  subtle  in  perception,  naturally  com 
manded  his  companions,  while  the  lustre  of  his 
character  allured  those  who  could  not  under 
stand  him.  The  asceticism  occasionally  showed 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  219 

itself  a  vein  of  hardness,  or  rather  of  severity 
in  his  treatment  of  others.  He  did  what  he 
thought  it  his  duty  to  do,  but  he  forgot  that 
few  could  see  the  right  so  clearly  as  he,  and 
very  few  of  those  few  could  so  calmly  obey  the 
least  command  of  conscience.  I  confess  I  was 
a  little  afraid  of  him,  for  I  think  I  never  could 
be  severe. 

In  the  long  winter  evenings  I  often  read  to 
Prue  the  story  of  some  old  father  of  the  church, 
or  some  quaint  poem  of  George  Herbert's  — 
and  every  Christmas-eve,  I  read  to  her  Milton's 
Hymn  of  the  Nativity.  Yet,  when  the  saint 
seems  to  us  most  saintly,  or  the  poem  most 
pathetic  or  sublime,  we  find  ourselves  talking 
of  our  cousin  the  curate.  I  have  not  seen  him 
for  many  years ;  but,  when  we  parted,  his  head 
had  the  intellectual  symmetry  of  Milton's,  with 
out  the  puritanic  stoop,  and  with  the  stately 
grace  of  a  cavalier. 

Such  a  boy  has  premature  wisdom  —  he  lives 
and  suffers  prematurely. 

Prue  loves  to  listen  when  I  speak  of  the  ro 
mance  of  his  life,  and  I  do  not  wonder.  For 
my  part,  I  find  in  the  best  romance  only  the 
story  of  my  love  for  her,  and  often  as  I 
read  to  her,  whenever  I  come  to  what  Titbot- 


220  PRUE  AND  I. 

torn  calls  "  the  crying  part,"  if  I  lift  my  eyes 
suddenly,  I  see  that  Prue's  eyes  are  fixed  on 
me  with  a  softer  light  by  reason  of  their 
moisture. 

Our  cousin  the  curate  loved,  while  he  was 
yet  a  boy,  Flora,  of  the  sparkling  eyes  and 
the  ringing  voice.  His  devotion  was  absolute. 
Flora  was  flattered,  because  all  the  girls,  as  I 
said,  worshipped  him ;  but  she  was  a  gay, 
glancing  girl,  who  had  invaded  the  student's 
heart  with  her  audacious  brilliancy,  and  was 
half  surprised  that  she  had  subdued  it.  Our 
cousin  —  for  I  never  think  of  him  as  my  cousin, 
only  —  wasted  away  under  the  fervor  of  his 
passion.  His  life  exhaled  as  incense  before 
her.  He  wrote  poems  to  her,  and  sang  them 
under  her  window,  in  the  summer  moonlight. 
He  brought  her  flowers  and  precious  gifts. 
When  he  had  nothing  else  to  give,  he  gave  her 
his  love  in  a  homage  so  eloquent  and  beautiful 
that  the  worship  was  like  the  worship  of  the 
wise  men.  The  gay  Flora  was  proud  and  su 
perb.  She  was  a  girl,  and  the  bravest  and 
best  boy  loved  her.  She  was  young,  and  the 
wisest  and  truest  youth  loved  her.  They  lived 
together,  we  all  lived  together,  in  the  happy 
valley  of  childhood.  We  looked  forward  to 


OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE.  221 

manhood  as  island-poets  look  across  the  sea, 
believing  that  the  whole  world  beyond  is  a 
blest  Araby  of  spices. 

The  months  went  by,  and  the  young  love 
continued.  Our  cousin  and  Flora  were  only 
children  still,  and  there  was  no  engagement. 
The  elders  looked  upon  the  intimacy  as  natural 
and  mutually  beneficial.  It  would  help  soften 
the  boy  and  strengthen  the  girl ;  and  they  took 
for  granted  that  softness  and  strength  were 
precisely  what  were  wanted.  It  is  a  great 
pity  that  men  and  women  forget  that  they 
have  been  children.  Parents  are  apt  to  be 
foreigners  to  their  sons  and  daughters.  Matu 
rity  is  the  gate  of  Paradise,  which  shuts  be 
hind  us;  and  our  memories  are  gradually 
weaned  from  the  glories  in  which  our  nativity 
was  cradled. 

The  months  went  by,  the  children  grew 
older,  and  they  constantly  loved.  Now  Prue 
always  smiles  at  one  of  my  theories ;  she  is  en 
tirely  sceptical  of  it;  but  it  is,  nevertheless, 
my  opinion  that  men  love  most  passionately, 
and  women  most  permanently.  Men  love  at 
first  and  most  warmly ;  women  love  last  and 
longest.  This  is  natural  enough;  for  nature 
makes  women  to  be  won,  and  men  to  win. 


222  PRUE  AND   I. 

Men  are  the  active,  positive  force,  and,  there 
fore,  they  are  more  ardent  and  demonstrative. 

I  can  never  get  farther  than  that  in  my 
philosophy,  when  Prue  looks  at  me,  and  smiles 
me  into  scepticism  of  my  own  doctrines.  But 
they  are  true,  notwithstanding. 

My  day  is  rather  past  for  such  speculations ; 
but  so  long  as  Aurelia  is  unmarried,  I  am  sure 
I  shall  indulge  myself  in  them.  I  have  never 
made  much  progress  in  the  philosophy  of  love ; 
in  fact,  I  can  only  be  sure  of  this  one  cardinal 
principle,  that  when  you  are  quite  sure  two 
people  cannot  be  in  love  with  each  other,  be 
cause  there  is  no  earthly  reason  why  they 
should  be,  then  you  may  be  very  confident  that 
you  are  wrong,  and  that  they  are  in  love,  for 
the  secret  of  love  is  past  finding  out.  Why 
our  cousin  should  have  loved  the  gay  Flora  so 
ardently  was  hard  to  say ;  but  that  he  did  so, 
was  not  difficult  to  see. 

He  went  away  to  college.  He  wrote  the 
most  eloquent  and  passionate  letters;  and 
when  he  returned  in  vacations,  he  had  no  eyes, 
ears,  nor  heart  for  any  other  being.  I  rarely 
saw  him,  for  I  was  living  away  from  our  early 
home,  and  was  busy  in  a  store  —  learning  to  be 
book-keeper  —  but  I  heard  afterward  from 
himself  the  whole  story. 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  223 

One  day  when  he  came  home  for  the  holi 
days,  he  found  a  young  foreigner  with  Flora  — 
a  handsome  youth,  brilliant  and  graceful.  I 
have  asked  Prue  a  thousand  times  why  women 
adore  soldiers  and  foreigners.  She  says  it  is 
because  they  love  heroism  and  are  romantic. 
A  soldier  is  professionally  a  hero,  says  Prue, 
and  a  foreigner  is  associated  with  all  unknown 
and  beautiful  regions.  I  hope  there  is  no 
worse  reason.  But  if  it  be  the  distance  which 
is  romantic,  then,  by  her  own  rule,  the  moun 
tain  which  looked  to  you  so  lovely  when  you 
saw  it  upon  the  horizon,  when  you  stand  upon 
its  rocky  and  barren  side,  has  transmitted  its 
romance  to  its  remotest  neighbor.  I  cannot 
but  admire  the  fancies  of  girls  which  make 
them  poets.  They  have  only  to  look  upon  a 
dull-eyed,  ignorant,  exhausted  rou&,  with  an 
impudent  mustache,  and  they  surrender  to 
Italy,  to  the  tropics,  to  the  splendors  of  no 
bility,  and  a  court  life  —  and  — 

"Stop,"  says  Prue,  gently;  "you  have  no  right 
to  say  '  girls '  do  so,  because  some  poor  victims 
have  been  deluded.  Would  Aurelia  surrender 
to  a  blear-eyed  foreigner  in  a  mustache  ?  " 

Prue  has  such  a  reasonable  way  of  putting 
these  things ! 


224  PRUE   AND   I. 

Our  cousin  came  home  and  found  Flora  and 
the  young  foreigner  conversing.  The  young 
foreigner  had  large,  soft,  black  eyes,  and  the 
dusky  skin  of  the  tropics.  His  manner  was 
languid  and  fascinating,  courteous  and  reserved. 
It  assumed  a  natural  supremacy,  and  you  felt 
as  if  here  were  a  young  prince  travelling  before 
he  came  into  possession  of  his  realm. 

It  is  an  old  fable  that  love  is  blind.  But  I 
think  there  are  no  eyes  so  sharp  as  those  of 
lovers.  I  am  sure  there  is  not  a  shade  upon 
Prue's  brow  that  I  do  not  instantly  remark,  nor 
an  altered  tone  in  her  voice  that  I  do  not  in 
stantly  observe.  Do  you  suppose  Aurelia  would 
not  note  the  slightest  deviation  of  heart  in  her 
lover,  if  she  had  one  ?  Love  is  the  coldest  of 
critics.  To  be  in  love  is  to  live  in  a  crisis,  and 
the  very  imminence  of  uncertainty  makes  the 
lover  perfectly  self-possessed.  His  eye  con 
stantly  scours  the  horizon.  There  is  no  foot 
fall  so  light  that  it  does  not  thunder  in  his  ear. 
Love  is  tortured  by  the  tempest  the  moment 
the  cloud  of  a  hand's  size  rises  out  of  the  sea. 
It  foretells  its  own  doom;  its  agony  is  past 
before  its  sufferings  are  known. 

Our  cousin  the  curate  no  sooner  saw  the  tropi 
cal  stranger,  and  marked  his  impression  upon 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  225 

Flora,  than  he  felt  the  end.  As  the  shaft  struck 
his  heart,  his  smile  was  sweeter,  and  his  hom 
age  even  more  poetic  and  reverential.  I  doubt 
if  Flora  understood  him  or  herself.  She  did 
not  know,  what  he  instinctively  perceived, 
that  she  loved  him  less.  But  there  are  no 
degrees  in  love;  when  it  is  less  than  abso 
lute  and  supreme,  it  is  nothing.  Our  cousin 
and  Flora  were,  not  formally  engaged,  but  their 
betrothal  was  understood  by  all  of  us  as  a  thing 
of  course.  He  did  not  allude  to  the  stranger ; 
but  as  day  followed  day,  he  saw  with  every 
nerve  all  that  passed.  Gradually  —  so  gradu 
ally  that  she  scarcely  noticed  it  —  our  cousin 
left  Flora  more  and  more  with  the  soft-eyed 
stranger,  whom  he  saw  she  preferred.  His 
treatment  of  her  was  so  full  of  tact,  he  still 
walked  and  talked  with  her  so  familiarly,  that 
she  was  not  troubled  by  any  fear  that  he  saw 
what  she  hardly  saw  herself.  Therefore,  she 
was  not  obliged  to  conceal  anything  from  him 
or  from  herself;  but  all  the  soft  currents  of 
her  heart  were  setting  toward  the  West  Indian. 
Our  cousin's  cheek  grew  paler,  and  his  soul 
burned  and  wasted  within  him.  His  whole 
future  —  all  his  dream  of  life  —  had  been 
founded  upon  his  love.  It  was  a  stately  palace 
Q 


226  PRUE   AND   I. 

built  upon  the  sand,  and  now  the  sand  was  slid 
ing  away.  I  have  read  somewhere,  that  love 
will  sacrifice  everything  but  itself.  But  our 
cousin  sacrificed  his  love  to  the  happiness  of  his 
mistress.  He  ceased  to  treat  her  as  peculiarly 
his  own.  He  made  no  claim  in  word  or  manner 
that  everybody  might  not  have  made.  He  did 
not  refrain  from  seeing  her,  or  speaking  of  her  as 
of  all  his  other  friends ;  and,  at  length,  although 
no  one  could  say  how  or  when  the  change  had 
been  made,  it  was  evident  and  understood  that 
he  was  no  more  her  lover,  but  that  both  were 
the  best  of  friends. 

He  still  wrote  to  her  occasionally  from  col 
lege,  and  his  letters  were  those  of  a  friend,  not 
of  a  lover.  He  could  not  reproach  her.  I  do 
not  believe  any  man  is  secretly  surprised  that 
a  woman  ceases  to  love  him.  Her  love  is  a 
heavenly  favor  won  by  no  desert  of  his.  If  it 
passes,  he  can  no  more  complain  than  a  flower 
when  the  sunshine  leaves  it. 

Before  our  cousin  left  college,  Flora  was 
married  to  the  tropical  stranger.  It  was  the 
brightest  of  June  days,  and  the  summer  smiled 
upon  the  bride.  There  were  roses  in  her  hand 
and  orange  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  the  village 
church  bell  rang  out  over  the  peaceful  fields. 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  227 

The  warm  sunshine  lay  upon  the  landscape  like 
God's  blessing,  and  Prue  and  I,  not  yet  married 
ourselves,  stood  at  an  open  window  in  the  old 
meeting-house,  hand  in  hand,  while  the  young 
couple  spoke  their  vows.  Prue  says  that  brides 
are  always  beautiful,  and  I,  who  remember 
Prue  herself  upon  her  wedding  day  —  how  can 
I  deny  it?  Truly,  the  gay  Flora  was  lovely 
that  summer  morning,  and  the  throng  was 
happy  in  the  old  church.  But  it  was  very  sad 
to  me,  although  I  only  suspected  then  what  now 
I  know.  I  shed  no  tears  at  my  own  wedding, 
but  I  did  at  Flora's,  although  I  knew  she  was 
marrying  a  soft-eyed  youth  whom  she  dearly 
loved,  and  who,  I  doubt  not,  dearly  loved  her. 

Among  the  group  of  her  nearest  friends  was 
our  cousin  the  curate.  When  the  ceremony 
was  ended,  he  came  to  shake  her  hand  with  the 
rest.  His  face  was  calm,  and  his  smile  sweet, 
and  his  manner  unconstrained.  Flora  did  not 
blush  —  why  should  she  ?  —  but  shook  his  hand 
warmly,  and  thanked  him  for  his  good  wishes. 
Then  they  all  sauntered  down  the  aisle  to 
gether  ;  there  were  some  tears  with  the  smiles 
among  the  other  friends ;  our  cousin  handed  the 
bride  into  her  carriage,  shook  hands  with  the 
husband,  closed  the  door,  and  Flora  drove  away. 


228  PRUE   AND   I. 

I  have  never  seen  her  since ;  I  do  not  even 
know  if  she  be  living  still.  But  I  shall  always 
remember  her  as  she  looked  that  June  morning, 
holding  roses  in  her  hand,  and  wreathed  with 
orange  flowers.  Dear  Flora !  it  was  no  fault  of 
hers  that  she  loved  one  man  more  than  another : 
she  could  not  be  blamed  for  not  preferring  our 
cousin  to  the  West  Indian :  there  is  no  fault  in 
the  story,  it  is  only  a  tragedy. 

Our  cousin  carried  all  the  collegiate  honors 
—  but  without  exciting  jealousy  or  envy.  He 
was  so  really  the  best,  that  his  companions 
were  anxious  he  should  have  the  sign  of  his 
superiority.  He  studied  hard,  he  thought 
much,  and  wrote  well.  There  was  no  evidence 
of  any  blight  upon  his  ambition  or  career,  but 
after  living  quietly  in  the  country  for  some 
time,  he  went  to  Europe  and  travelled.  When 
he  returned,  he  resolved  to  study  law,  but 
presently  relinquished  it.  Then  he  collected 
materials  for  a  history,  but  suffered  them  to 
lie  unused.  Somehow  the  mainspring  was 
gone.  He  used  to  come  and  pass  weeks  with 
Prue  and  me.  His  coming  made  the  children 
happy,  for  he  sat  with  them,  and  talked  and 
played  with  them  all  day  long,  as  one  of  them 
selves.  They  had  no  quarrels  when  our  cousin 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  229 

the  curate  was  their  playmate,  and  their  laugh 
was  hardly  sweeter  than  his  as  it  rang  down 
from  the  nursery.  Yet  sometimes,  as  Prue 
was  setting  the  tea-table,  and  I  sat  musing  by 
the  fire,  she  stopped  and  turned  to  me  as  we 
heard  that  sound,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

He  was  interested  in  all  subjects  that  inter 
ested  others.  His  fine  perception,  his  clear 
sense,  his  noble  imagination,  illuminated  every 
question.  His  friends  wanted  him  to  go  into 
political  life,  to  write  a  great  book,  to  do  some 
thing  worthy  of  his  powers.  It  was  the  very 
thing  he  longed  to  do  himself;  but  he  came 
and  played  with  the  children  in  the  nursery, 
and  the  great  deed  was  undone.  Often,  in  the 
long  winter  evenings,  we  talked  of  the  past, 
while  Titbottom  sat  silent  by,  and  Prue  was 
busily  knitting.  He  told  us  the  incidents  of 
his  early  passion  —  but  he  did  not  moralize 
about  it,  nor  sigh,  nor  grow  moody.  He  turned 
to  Prue,  sometimes,  and  jested  gently,  and 
often  quoted  from  the  old  song  of  George 
Withers,  I  believe :  — 


"  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?  " 


230  PBUE  AND   I. 

But  there  was  no  flippancy  in  the  jesting ;  I 
thought  the  sweet  humor  was  no  gayer  than  a 
flower  upon  a  grave. 

I  am  sure  Titbottom  loved  our  cousin  the 
curate,  for  his  heart  is  as  hospitable  as  the 
summer  heaven.  It  was  beautiful  to  watch  his 
courtesy  toward  him,  and  I  do  not  wonder  that 
Prue  considers  the  deputy  book-keeper  the 
model  of  a  high-bred  gentleman.  When  you 
see  his  poor  clothes,  and  thin,  gray  hair,  his 
loitering  step,  and  dreamy  eye,  you  might  pass 
him  by  as  an  inefficient  man ;  but  when  you 
hear  his  voice  always  speaking  for  the  noble 
and  generous  side,  or  recounting,  in  a  half- 
melancholy  chant,  the  recollections  of  his 
youth;  when  you  know  that  his  heart  beats 
with  the  simple  emotion  of  a  boy's  heart,  and 
that  his  courtesy  is  as  delicate  as  a  girl's  mod 
esty,  you  will  understand  why  Prue  declares 
that  she  has  never  seen  but  one  man  who  re 
minded  her  of  our  especial  favorite,  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  and  that  his  name  is  Titbottom. 

At  length  our  cousin  went  abroad  again  to 
Europe.  It  was  many  years  ago  that  we 
watched  him  sail  away,  and  when  Titbottom, 
and  Prue,  and  I  went  home  to  dinner,  the 
grace  that  was  said  that  day  was  a  fervent 


Our  talk  flags  Into  silence  as  we  sit 
before  the  fire. 


it  inai 


. 


n2  sw  26  sonslis  ctni  23J31I  r 
.sift  sriJ  sio\sd 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  231 

prayer  for  our  cousin  the  curate.  Many  an  even 
ing  afterward,  the  children  wanted  him,  and 
cried  themselves  to  sleep  calling  upon  his 
name.  Many  an  evening  still,  our  talk  flags 
into  silence  as  we  sit  before  the  fire,  and  Prue 
puts  down  her  knitting  and  takes  my  hand,  as 
if  she  knew  my  thoughts,  although  we  do  not 
name  his  name. 

He  wrote  us  letters  as  he  wandered  about 
the  world.  They  were  affectionate  letters,  full 
of  observation,  and  thought,  and  description. 
He  lingered  longest  in  Italy,  but  he  said  his 
conscience  accused  him  of  yielding  to  the 
sirens ;  and  he  declared  that  his  life  was  run 
ning  uselessly  away.  At  last  he  came  to  Eng 
land.  He  was  charmed  with  everything,  and 
the  climate  was  even  kinder  to  him  than  that  of 
Italy.  He  went  to  all  the  famous  places,  and 
saw  many  of  the  famous  Englishmen,  and 
wrote  that  he  felt  England  to  be  his  home. 
Burying  himself  in  the  ancient  gloom  of  a  uni 
versity  town,  although  past  the  prime  of  life, 
he  studied  like  an  ambitious  boy.  He  said 
again  that  his  life  had  been  wine  poured  upon 
the  ground,  and  he  felt  guilty.  And  so  our 
cousin  became  a  curate. 

"  Surely,"  wrote  he,  "  you  and  Prue  will  be 


232  PKtTE  AND   I. 

glad  to  hear  it ;  and  my  friend  Titbottom  can 
no  longer  boast  that  he  is  more  useful  in  the 
world  than  I.  Dear  old  George  Herbert  has 
already  said  what  I  would  say  to  you,  and  here 
it  is. 

'"I  made  a  posy,  while  the  day  ran  by  ; 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band. 
But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
My  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 
And  wither'd  in  my  hand. 

•' '  My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my  heart ; 
I  took,  without  more  thinking,  in  good  part, 

Time's  gentle  admonition ; 
Which  did  so  sweetly  death's  sad  taste  convey, 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day, 

Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 

*' '  Farewell,  dear  flowers,  sweetly  your  time  ye  spent, 
Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 

And  after  death  for  cures  ; 
I  follow  straight  without  complaints  or  grief, 
Since  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 

It  be  as  short  as  yours.'  " 

This  is  our  only  relation ;  and  do  you  won 
der  that,  whether  our  days  are  dark  or  bright, 
we  naturally  speak  of  our  cousin  the  curate  ? 
There  is  no  nursery  longer,  for  the  children 


OUR  COUSIN   THE  CURATE.  233 

are  grown ;  but  I  have  seen  Prue  stand,  with 
her  hand  holding  the  door,  for  an  hour,  and 
looking  into  the  room  now  so  sadly  still  and 
tidy,  with  a  sweet  solemnity  in  her  eyes  that  I 
will  call  holy.  Our  children  have  forgotten 
their  old  playmate,  but  I  am  sure  if  there  be 
any  children  in  his  parish,  over  the  sea,  they 
love  our  cousin  the  curate,  and  watch  eagerly 
for  his  coming.  Does  his  step  falter  now,  I 
wonder;  is  that  long,  fair  hair,  gray;  is  that 
laugh  as  musical  in  those  distant  homes  as  it 
used  to  be  in  our  nursery ;  has  England,  among 
all  her  good  and  great  men,  any  man  so  noble 
as  our  cousin  the  curate  ? 

The  great  book  is  unwritten;  the  great 
deeds  are  undone;  in  no  biographical  diction 
ary  will  you  find  the  name  of  our  cousin  the 
curate.  Is  his  life,  therefore,  lost  ?  Have  his 
powers  been  wasted  ? 

I  do  not  dare  to  say  it ;  for  I  see  Bourne,  on 
the  pinnacle  of  prosperity,  but  still  looking 
sadly  for  his  castle  in  Spain ;  I  see  Titbottom, 
an  old  deputy  book-keeper,  whom  nobody 
knows,  but  with  his  chivalric  heart,  loyal  to 
whatever  is  generous  and  humane,  full  of  sweet 
hope,  and  faith,  and  devotion ;  I  see  the  superb 
Aurelia,  so  lovely  that  the  Indians  would  call 


234  PEUE   AND   I. 

her  a  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  as  benefi 
cent  as  a  saint  of  the  calendar  —  how  shall  I 
say  what  is  lost,  or  what  is  won  ?  I  know 
that  in  every  way,  and  by  all  His  creatures, 
God  is  served  and  His  purposes  accomplished. 
How  should  I  explain  or  understand,  I  who  am 
only  an  old  book-keeper  in  a  white  cravat  ? 

Yet  in  all  history,  in  the  splendid  triumphs 
of  emperors  and  kings,  in  the  dreams  of  poets, 
the  speculations  of  philosophers,  the  sacrifices 
of  heroes,  and  the  ecstasies  of  saints,  I  find  no 
exclusive  secret  of  success.  Prue  says  she 
knows  that  nobody  ever  did  more  good  than 
our  cousin  the  curate,  for  every  smile  and  word 
of  his  is  a  good  deed;  and  I,  for  my  part, 
am  sure  that,  although  many  must  do  more 
good  in  the  world,  nobody  enjoys  it  more  than 
Prue  and  I. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000245610 


